Page 43 of An Acquired Taste

Chapter Twenty-Three

Aweek slips past, and then another. The weather warms and my nerves gradually calm down. I take the time to care for myself, vent on my blog, and chat with the staff at dinner. A couple more mysterious gifts arrive—a bottle of red wine from the year I was born, a book of poetry by Catullus. I try not to worry about what Sebastian would think if he knew I was receiving gifts from another vampire. I try not to think about that grave out on the estate grounds, either.

And then, one day, Ellen comes into my room bearing a breakfast try and a handwritten note inviting me to tea.

I run my finger over the paper. “Sebastian is back?”

She nods. “He arrived this evening.”

“Hm.” It’s encouraging that he wants to see me immediately upon his return, rather than skulking around in the library and ignoring me for days. I suppose I owe it to him to hear him out, at least. “Please tell him I’ll be there.”

* * *

Despite everything that’s happened between us, Sebastian is no less devastating to look at. He appears far more put together than he was during that encounter in the hallway, severe in ablack button-up shirt, not a single inky strand of hair out of place. He sits straight-backed in his chair, hands folded in his lap, and barely moves as I walk in and take a seat across from him.

Ellen and Bridget set out tea for us both and breakfast for me. Once they leave, an uncomfortable silence blankets the dining room. I can’t bring myself to eat when my stomach is in knots. I toy with the silver bracelet I decided to wear.

Sebastian glances at it, and then at me. He clears his throat. “You’ve been well, I hope?”

I shoot an incredulous look across the table and fold my arms. That’s how he means to begin this conversation?

He grimaces and runs a hand through his hair. “Right. That was a foolish question. I… what I meant to say is, I apologize for what happened before I left. My hunger got the best of me, which is my own fault.” He stares down into his tea rather than looking at me. “The night you were hurt… I had intended to ask if I could begin to drink from you directly. But then you were injured, and I didn’t want to ask it of you, and… I waited longer than I should’ve, knowing the effect your blood has on me. It was a stupid error.” He raises his eyes to me. “I should never have put you at risk like that, nor made you doubt that you’re safe.”

I’ve been practicing this conversation in my head for days. I pictured myself being angry or cold. Threatening to tell the world what he did, making him beg for my forgiveness. Confronting him about Etta. But I never imagined him apologizing so willingly, and despite my better instincts, I find myself softening. “Thank you for saying that,” I say. “I… accept your apology. As long as it doesn’t happen again.”

“It won’t,” he says, in a firm tone that brooks no argument.

I nod, and then it’s back to awkward silence. I pick at a scone just to have something to occupy my hands. I try not to thinkabout the fact that Sebastian is sitting where Alexander did, not so long ago, and how easily the conversation flowed then.

“Ellen mentioned that you had a visitor while I was away,” Sebastian says, as if reading my thoughts. His tone is neutral. “A vampire visitor.”

My pulse rises. I need to keep reminding myself that Ellen and the staff are loyal to Sebastian, not to me. I’m hesitant to admit the truth about Alexander, especially after the suspicions he raised about Sebastian.

“Benjamin came to check in on me,” I lie.

Sebastian pauses, his brow furrowing. He looks again at the silver bracelet on my wrist. “I assume you told him about what happened.” It’s impossible to read his tone. Would he be angry if I did? Guilty?

I could claim that I did tell him. Maybe it would make me safer, if Sebastian thought suspicion would fall upon him if something happened to me. But as I look into his dark eyes, I can’t quite bring myself to voice the lie. “No,” I say instead. “I didn’t think it was any of his business.”

Sebastian looks away. I’m surprised that he seems troubled rather than relieved. “You should have told him,” he says. “He would have considered it a breach of our contract. Taken you away. He should have, after I lost control like that.”

Is that what Sebastian thinks I want? …Isthat what I want? I hesitate and then reach over the table, giving Sebastian plenty of time to pull away before I take his hand. Again, I’m uncomfortably aware of parallels between this conversation and the one with Alexander, but I try to push the thought away. “I won’t deny that you frightened me,” I say. “But you didn’t bite me. You didn’t hurt me. You didn’t lose control.” He looks up at me, and I’m surprised to see agony written all over his face. Maybe I’m a fool, but when I look into his eyes, I can’t bringmyself to believe Sebastian would hurt me. I squeeze his hand. “Like I said, as long as it doesn’t happen again…”

“It won’t. We’ll return to using the syringe. It was foolish to attempt otherwise.” He pulls his hand away from mine.

It’s stupid to be disappointed. Even though it feels like taking a step back, he’s doing this for my safety. I always took his use of the syringe as a snub, but now I think he’s been trying to keep me safe from the beginning. I was the one who pushed for more. I crossed a boundary when I asked him to drink from me, and again when I asked about Etta. Maybe I’ll never know what happened with her, but… maybe it’s not my place to know. As long as I believe he won’t hurt me—and I do —then maybe it’s none of my business what happened here a century ago.

Perhaps I’ve been asking too much of Sebastian. This is, after all, a contracted relationship. He does not owe me anything beyond what’s laid out there, and it was stupid to hope for otherwise.

* * *

With Sebastian back at the estate, my life settles back into routine. Ellen takes my blood via syringe every evening; Sebastian’s place at the dining table sits empty every night. I avoid the library and keep to myself. I spend most nights alone in my room. Sometimes I read—I’m slowly making my way through the book of poetry that Alexander sent, which is surprisingly good—but mostly I write in my blog. It’s the only place I can be honest.

Who am I supposed to talk to, anyway? I still can’t talk to Maisy about any of this. It feels awkward chatting to Alexander with the truth about his offer of patronage hanging over us. Ino longer trust Benjamin, either, after finding out he lied to me about it, so I only respond to his check-ins with brief, bland answers. I don’t feel comfortable with the staff either, knowing that they concealed facts about Etta from me.

I can tell that they’re trying to make it up to me. When I excuse my lack of talkativeness as trouble sleeping, fresh pillows are waiting at my door the next morning. When I decline dessert—practically unheard of—that next night, Bridget makes the chocolate cake I so enjoyed at a previous dinner. When I explain my distance from Ellen by the fact that I’ve been busy writing, a set of buttery-soft leather notebooks and fancy pens arrives with my breakfast tray the next morning.

But despite their efforts, it’s impossible for me to unlearn the truth now that I’ve figured it out. The staff are not my friends, and this place is not my home. This is a job, and for my sanity, I need to treat it as such.

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