Page 42 of The Vampire Debt

Again, I shake my head. “I should hate her… Idohate her for what she did to Rosalie… but every time she is near—”

I want her.

It is a damning truth. A curse to want the very creature who took away the one soul I had left in this world.

“Leave me. I have other business more important than some damned bargain with a mortal,” I say, resting my face in my hands.

Cherno says nothing more. There is only the flapping of their small leather wings, and then I am alone with the crackling fire.

I look at the opened letter on my desk. I had assumed Elizabeth was once again requesting my presence, but the news was far worse. It had, in part, been one of the reasons I had made the deal with Clara… that coupled with my own selfish reasons. There was little more I could have done, except demand that she allow me to mark her, to bind her to me—but she would have refused outright. I would have wanted her to refuse that.

After a long moment, I stand.Enough moping. Enough dwelling.There is nothing I can do to stop the future from happening. Snatching the crystal decanter from the shelf, I pour some of the amber liquid into one of the glasses. I throw my head back and relish in the burn of it. Then I pour another, sipping this one slowly, enjoying the taste.

I freeze as I turn. Clara stands in the doorway. She is ready for a fight. But my mind is too weary for such a thing tonight.

“Good evening,” I say. “Are you here to draw blood?”

She marches up to me, a storm in her deep brown eyes, the color nearly drowned out by her pupils.

“I… I would ratherdiethan kiss you,” Clara hisses. She is looking for a fight.

I nod and turn away, taking another draw from my glass. It has been less than an hour since I have consumed the blood of a mortal woman, and still the urge to pull this one to me remains. I rest an arm on the fireplace mantle and get lost in my thoughts, hoping she will leave if I ignore her.

Seconds later, I realize that small hope is in vain when she moves to stand before me, hands on her hips. I take another sip, her eyes following the movement, and I see the moment she realizes it isn’t blood.

“What is that?” she asks.

“Brandy,” I say. Then after a short pause I add, “Would you like some?”

She eyes the liquid suspiciously. Her gaze roams to the decanter behind me on the shelf, then slowly she nods. Good. The last thing I want to do right now is fight with her.

I pour her a decent amount and she is achingly carful to take it by the bottom of the glass to avoid touching me. A move I find both amusing and disappointing.

Clara sits on the floor with her back up against the desk, forgoing the chair before the fireplace, or the one behind the desk. She is an odd human. I have seen more than my fair share of ladies, and Clara is nothing like them. Were her qualities to be written down and applied to anyone else, they would seem undesirable, but she has a way of being comfortable in her own skin in such a way that those same qualities fit her like a glove.

I grab the decanter and sit on the floor next to her. I watch every movement as she brings the glass to her lips and takes a sip. She sighs and leans back, so her spine is relaxed rather than ramrod straight for once.

“This is good… thank you.”

Clara holds the glass in her lap, the fire and storm in her when she first entered the room has fizzled out.

The hour ticks by in silence, then two, and then three. As we each empty our glasses, I refill them until every last drop from the decanter is gone. It is strange to sit next to someone I should have killed the moment I discovered her crime, knowing she wishes for my death as well—and have a moment of quiet and… I wouldn’t call it understanding, but something akin to it.

The small clock on the mantle chimes three in the morning.

She turns to me, setting her empty glass on top of the desk. “I should go.”

I want to protest. I want to ask her to stay until the sun rises. Instead, I nod and rise with her.

Her hand goes to her side and presses against her skirt. I know instantly from her tell that she has the dagger stashed away there. Then she drops her chin and says, “Thank you.” The tone is demure and overly sweet and false.

Clara pulls back her arm and thrusts it forward. I catch her wrist easily enough. Even if she hadn’t had the alcohol to dim her senses. I keep my hand where it is, even when the strength goes out of her arm and the dagger clatters to the floor.

“That didn’t take long for you to change your mind.”

Her eyes are locked on my hand encircling her small wrist. My grip is light, and she could pull away if she tried. But she doesn’t move.

“Now it’s time to pay for your failure.”