Page 55 of Thirst
I already had my phone out. That handled, I crossed to the wet bar, poured her a glass of blood-wine and carried it back to her.
“Drink,” I said.
Instead of obeying, she looked from the blood-infused liquid to my face. Her forehead wrinkled, like she couldn’t figure out why the man who’d injured her was now trying to heal her.
That makes two of us, firefly.
But I couldn’t help myself. Even with the sting of her betrayal still flaying my skin, I couldn’t stand seeing her hurting.
She sighed and stared up at the ceiling.
“That wasn’t a request.” I slid my hand behind her head and lifted it, pushing the wineglass into her palm. “Drink.”
Her soft lips turned down, but her fingers closed around the stem.
“All of it,” I told her.
She exhaled audibly. But she drained the glass.
I took it from her. “More?”
“No, thank you,” she said. Polite, stilted words that made me want to crush the thin crystal bowl in my hand.
I put the wineglass on the bar. When I turned back, she’d inched herself higher on the couch arm and was gazing around curiously. I’d noticed that about her—how she looked at things.
It was an artist’s way of taking things in, I realized now. Observing, cataloguing, filing away for future reference.
She blinked. “This is… you.” Her eyes met mine. “You chose everything yourself, right—the palette, the furniture? No decorator.”
“Yeah.”
A small smile tugged at her mouth. “I knew it.”
Knew what?
I glanced around the living room. To me, it was practical. Expensive, yeah, because I could afford the best. But practical, with clean lines and no clutter—white walls, mid-century leather-and-chrome furniture, a walnut bar with flat, almost-invisible panels. No rugs, just black terra cotta tiles that could be heated with the flip of a switch.
Nyx eyed the trio of photos behind the Eames—my sole effort at personalizing the place. Big, moody things, shot in silvertone because I liked how the intense black-and-white let you see the bones behind the colors. The first one caught a midnight storm rolling in over the ocean, the clouds heavy, restless. The second showed a pale pre-dawn fog slinking up to the base of the castle’s coal-dark walls. The third was the simplest: a lone pine against a glowing full moon.
When I caught myself waiting for her reaction, I tore my gaze from her face and sank into the Barcelona chair beside the couch. This wasn’t a social visit. The woman was a prisoner, not a guest.
“You took these, didn’t you?” she asked. “On the island.”
I jerked my chin in assent. “Yeah.”
“You’re good,” she said. Short and sincere.
I couldn’t stop the ripple of pride that went through me—ridiculous, but real. An artist like The Haunt liking my photos. I actually started to smile.
Then suspicion kicked back in. Of course she’d flatter me. That was the game. Make me think she was on my side, so I’d forget who really owned her loyalty—Nazaire.
She was his. His creature. His weapon.
The enemy.
My smile faded.
An awkward silence fell. Nyx’s eyelids drooped. She massaged her forehead, let out a pained exhale.
