“Gods, do I look that old?”
She laughed. “You are ageless, sir, to be honest.”
He felt smug “Halve it.”
“Two hundred?”
“Not quite. Two hundred and twenty-three, to be exact.”
“Wow, you were alive during the Great War.”
“I was four years old when it started, and ten years old when it ended.”
“That’s fascinating, you must have so many memories of that time.”
He held up a hand in warning. “Please, no more questions. That is the period I choose to forget.”
Her brows pleated. “But you must get asked about it often, surely?”
“No. Because I never mention my age.”
“You’ve just mentioned it to me.”
“That’s different.”
“How come?”
He found himself laughing, exasperated and elated in equal measure.
“I don’t know, Clare. Maybe it’s the balmy evening air, maybe it’s because we have chosen to address each other by our first names, maybe it’s that you look…” Gods, he’d nearly told hershe looked beautiful. “Different, outside of work,” he finished lamely.
She gazed steadily at him out of those incredible eyes, as if she had the measure of him, saw him for exactly what he was. A lonely, fucked-up vampire infatuated with a young and beautiful human.
A human not quite in her prime, who would blossom spectacularly, then fade and die.
It cut like a dagger, sank between his ribs and grazed close to his heart. The fact that she would leave this earth while he lived on for fucking eternity.
Swiftly, he changed the subject. “I think there are many who would love to dance with you tonight.”
“You seem determined to return to the topic of dancing, si—” She stopped short and bit her lip.
“And you seem determined to call me sir.”
“Force of habit.”
“Hmmm. Let’s talk about you instead,” he purred.
“To avoid talking aboutyou?”
“Exactly.”
“Okay then—” She tilted her chin. “Let’s take turns. I promise not to ask anything about the war.”
“Very well. So, Clare…”
“So… Oliver.”
They both laughed, and he felt ridiculously—what? Happy? How bizarre.
