“Who is Henry?”
Penelope shrieked as her hand found her chest, attempting to stop her heart from leaping away.
Elias, who was sprawled across her bed as though it were his own, smirked at her reaction with condescension practically dripping from his fangs.
And even worse, he looked like every bit of sin the books told about vampires. A show of arrogance and flesh, white hair that was perfectly unkempt and brown skin that wrapped around taught muscles that could be confused for boulders. And then his eyes—a sharp, blood-red that watched her with every bit of intensity of a fox stalking its prey.
Penelope froze. “Get out.”
He smiled wider without moving from her bed. “I rather like it here… I must say, wealth seems like it is good for the back. Your mattress is quite comfortable.”
“You cannot—” She strode to the bedside, seizing the pink sheet as though she might wrench it from under him. “If my father finds you—”
Elias’ hand fell on hers, wrapping around her wrist, stilling her toiling.
“If your father finds me, he’ll discover how fragile men’s throats can be.”
Her stomach dropped. “You think this is amusing?”
“I think,” he said, stretching lazily, dropping his hold on her, “youare amusing. Besides, I am still waiting on an answer to my offer, Lamb.”
She bit back her reply—because at that moment came the knock. Sharp. Her father’s voice just beyond the door.
“Penelope? Is everything alright?”
Her blood iced. Elias smirked, as though he’d timed it himself.
“Y-yes, Father! I merely saw… a rat.”
“A rat? Do not move. I’ll fetch the broom.”
“A rat?” Elias muttered, his brows drawn together in genuine offense like a sulking child.
“Hide,” she hissed through gritted teeth.
He gestured around at her room, which suddenly felt much too small. “Where?”
“Anywhere, just go!” She shoved at his shoulder, and with infuriating grace he let himself roll off the bed, landing soundlessly on the floor.
She smoothed her skirts, forced her face into composure, and opened the door just as her father’s gaze swept the room, frantic and searching.
“Where is it?”
“Where is what?” she asked, arranging a smile.
Her father’s brows furrowed as his eyes met hers. “The rat?”
Penelope puckered her lips, feigning thought, then gave a delicate shrug. “I cannot say what you are referring to. There are no rats.”
“You screamed?”
“I did not.” Her eyes flicked to the broom he brandished like a weapon. “Perhaps the sweeping should be left to me. You ought to rest. Stress is no friend to the mind.”
His eyes flicked between hers and the room a moment longer before finally lowering the broom, handing it to her. “Yes—well… mayhap, I shall take a rest?” He turned to leave, pausing in the doorway as he glanced over his shoulder. “No rats?”
“No rats,” she said softly.
After another lingering moment, he closed the door behind him.
