Page 25 of Thirst
But first he’d called me a birdbrain and backhanded me across the face in front of a group of his men and their thralls. Then he’d made me stay and serve everyone drinks, my cheek still throbbing, before ordering Rodrigo to lock me in my apartment.
It wasn’t the first time he’d humiliated me in front of the lair. It wasn’t even the first time I’d been confined to my quarters. But before, I’d always had my art to disappear into. I guess he’d realized that I could survive anything as long as I could paint.
I was reduced to sketching on napkins with lipstick and eye liner. One night, I grabbed a bar of soap and drew a woman on the bathroom mirror, her mouth open in a silent scream, hands tearing at her hair.
Cain growled. “He burned your work?” He framed my face with his palms, his brows two fierce slashes. “What the fuck’s the matter with him? Doesn’t he know how good you are?”
Actually, no.
But I didn’t tell Cain. Instead, I gave a tiny shake of my head.
I hadn’t forgotten that threat Cain had made about going to Dussault with this. I didn’t think he would—he seemed truly angered on my behalf. But I wasn’t sure.
His thumbs brushed along my cheekbones. “Tell me how to get to him, firefly. Let me end the motherfucker.”
I leaned into his palms. That nickname—firefly—made me want to melt, to agree to anything. If only this were a story, a painting, and the two of us could disappear into a fantasy world together.
But it wasn’t. And this was my father, my sire.
“No.” I caught his wrists, pushing them away from my face. “I’m not a blood-rat.”
His expression tightened, but he released me. “I’ll keep you out of it, I swear. No one will ever know you helped.”
“I’ll know.”
His mouth flattened. “So you’re protecting him, even now.”
“I’m not a blood-rat,” I said again. “Honor means something to me.”
Maybe I’d given up on ever winning Nazaire’s respect. But you didn’t betray your sire. It was drilled into us—vampires and dhampirs alike—from the moment we could walk.
When I left the QCS, I was leaving with my head high and my conscience intact.
“I see.” Cain rose, zipping his pants in one swift, final motion.
I got dressed just as fast, not caring when the fragile lace tore under my hands.
He shrugged into his jacket and leaned back against the hotel’s limestone wall, head tipped toward the single star that had managed to punch through the fog.
I ached to go to him, give him a last, hard hug. But he was once again the Maritime Syndicate lieutenant.
“Goodbye,” I said in a low voice.
“Lemaire was going to sell Eden,” he said. “Did you know that? To Nazaire—as a blood slave.”
“No. He—what?” I took a step backward. “Where did you hear that?”
He brought his gaze back to me. “Lemaire told Eden himself.”
“Then he lied,” I returned, on surer ground now. “Lemaire, yes. He and Fleur were running that blood slave ring, the one your syndicate broke up.”
“And Nazaire’s still pissed off about that.”
“Not because he was a part of it. The entire upper hierarchy is seething. You think they don’t know why your primus invested in that casino? He won’t stop until the QCS is under Maritime control. Already, he’s pressuring Dussault to allow more investment, more oversight of our private business.”
“You really don’t know, do you?”
Uneasiness skittered along my skin. “Know what?”
