Page 8 of Thirst
He rocked back on his heels, like he hadn’t really believed it. Before I could say anything else, a trio of Spanish vampires sauntered over, and we exchanged greetings.
Cain waited until we were alone again to speak—soft, menacing velvet. “If you’re her, then you were there that night. Because that’s me in the pine trees. I was wearing a peacoat just like that.”
My heart kicked against my ribcage. It was him, of course—his lean, tough body, his tightly coiled energy, although I’d darkened his white-blond hair and blurred his face. Even the ghost-cat was Cain, its irises the same ice-blue.
I opened my mouth to lie. But somehow, I couldn’t. “Yes. It’s you.”
A tense silence. Then, “Look at me.”
My skin prickled. “Not here,” I repeated.
“Fine. The washroom, then. Ten minutes.” His tone made it clear I’d better comply.
He waited for my nod, then moved to the next painting, taking a blood-whiskey from a server and greeting a Paris soldier by name.
My heart was still pounding. Why had I been so stupid as to make that damn painting anyway?
But I’d had to. The need to process what had happened that night, to paint Cain and the fire and my shock at how fast things had gone south, had surged up in me, fierce and unignorable, like trying to choke back a scream.
Of course, I could’ve left the painting in Canada. I’d known Cain might find out I’d be here tonight. Hell, I’d hoped he would. So why ship the canvas to Paris in the first place?
But I knew the answer. It was my best work yet, and I’d wanted the world to see it—just once—before I hid it away in my studio at my father’s lair.
And maybe I’d wanted Cain to see it, too.
“Wine, Madame?” A bare-chested male server offered me another blood-wine.
I stared at it for a second, then grabbed the glass and drained it. “Merci.” I handed the glass back to the man.
When I looked around again, Cain had disappeared into the crowd and there was no sign of Jerome—or any QCS men, for that matter.
I started for the washroom.
“Nyx.” Halfway across the gallery, a sharp-jawed dhampir with ink-black hair stepped into my path. A thrall hung off his arm like a designer accessory—curves poured into a body-con dress, pouty red lips, fake adoration.
My stomach tightened. I summoned a social smile, all mouth, no eyes. “Rodrigo.”
A distant cousin on my mother’s side, Rodrigo had used the connection to worm his way into my father’s inner circle, despite being only half-vampire like me. He leaned in to kiss me on the lips, but I turned at the last second so his mouth brushed my cheek instead.
He pulled back, a scowl marring his handsome face. “I’m going to the new casino after the show. Meet me there.”
Not asking me. Telling me.
It was an effort, but I kept my smile in place. “I’d love to, but I can’t.”
His fingers dug into my upper arm. “Why not?”
The thrall shifted uneasily on her pointy heels.
I eyed my cousin, chest burning, itching to rip my arm free. But I didn’t. I couldn’t. I was my father’s property—and by extension, property of every man who served him. Rodrigo wouldn’t hesitate to report my insolence, and I couldn’t risk giving my father another reason to tighten the leash.
Not now, when I was so close to escaping all together.
“Dussault invited me to an after-party.” I lifted a brow. “You’re not going?”
Dussault was Régis Dussault, the QCS primus. And I knew Rodrigo wasn’t going because there was no after-party.
His thick brows drew together. He removed his hand from my arm. “No,” he said, adding with a slimy smile, “Too bad. I could use the luck.”
