Page 36 of Thirst
I touched it. “I bought it in Paris.”
Her gaze flicked to mine. “Ah, oui? Very sexy.”
“I wore it to the opening.”
I flashed to Cain, the way his eyes had seemed to eat me up. Like I was the only thing in the gallery worth looking at. That look had made me feel seen. Wanted.
Now it just hurt.
“For this man?” Perla asked, her voice gentle.
I just shook my head.
She eyed me for a few seconds, then nodded. Allowing me my secrets because we both knew they were dangerous.
I swung the second suitcase onto the shelf and unzipped it.
She clucked over the tear I’d made in the fabric. “But it’s ripped. I’ll mend it.”
“Just throw it away, okay?”
I scooped up my dirty underwear and shoved it into the laundry basket. Like if I did it forcefully enough, I could bury the memory of Cain and what I’d done in that dress.
“Very well.” She stacked one basket on top of the other. “Nazaire is in the lair,” she said with a sidelong glance at me. “He’ll be calling for you in an hour, maybe less. But you didn’t hear that from me.”
“Merde.” My pulse kicked up. “I’d better clean up.”
My father liked to surprise me. Not because he didn’t trust me—like I’d told Cain, he believed I was exactly what he’d made me: obedient, broken in, too weak to rebel. But he liked to keep me off balance. It amused him.
“Yes.” She faced me, her teeth worrying her lower lip. “I wish…things could be different for you.”
My gaze snapped to hers. A beat passed. I almost said it—almost told her that that I was leaving. That by next month, I’d be gone.
But I didn’t.
“It’s not so bad,” I said instead, turning away so she wouldn’t see the lie on my face.
There was a short pause, then she said, “You go clean up. I’ll finish up here. Oh, and I ordered steak frites. It should be here by the time you’re ready.”
My favorite meal.
Gratitude squeezed my chest. I met her eyes. “Thank you,” I said, hoping she’d hear everything I wasn’t saying.
Her face softened, and I knew she understood—that I wasn’t just thanking her for steak frites, but for standing by me when it gained her nothing and could cost her everything.
“Of course. Now go.” She shooed me away with a flick of her pearly nails.
I headed for the shower, already feeling the weight of Nazaire’s presence pressing in from the walls. The performance would start soon, and I needed to be flawless.
After, I dressed in a silky pink camisole and cropped black pants. In the living room, Perla had left a covered dinner plate on the coffee table. I sprawled on the couch, the plate balanced on my lap, feet propped on the distressed oak table. I was midway through my steak frites when I received a text from my father’s PA, summoning me to his apartment.
Abandoning my meal, I pulled on a fitted leather jacket, the buttery black hide molding to my torso like armor, then stepped into low boots and hurried through the lair’s twisting corridors.
Nazaire was alone in his parlor except for Yvette, the thrall who doubled as his PA. Both were dressed for the evening, my father in a tailored suit, his black hair gleaming like a raven’s wing. Yvette wore a short crimson dress and heels, her dark brown hair loose around her shoulders, her softness—round breasts and full lips—a foil for his hard, polished lines.
“Bonsoir, my dear.” Nazaire watched me cross the parlor, the barest smile on his lips—all I ever got from him.
“Good evening, Father.” I kissed each of his cool cheeks in turn.
