“Gentle,” she said softly. Her own fingers reached for his, guiding them down. The first note rang out—pure, resonant. Elias flinched, as though the sound itself had struck him.
Her lips curved faintly. “See? It isn’t so frightening.”
“Not frightening,” he muttered, eyes fixed on her small hand resting against his. “Unfamiliar.” His thumb twitched under her touch, not from fear but from the awareness of her skin against his own. Flesh he had just tasted.
Yet here she was, his Lamb, acting as though nothing had happened. All for her letters…
She pressed another key with him, then another, a halting melody beginning to take shape. The sound was awkward, uneven, yet it filled the room with something other than silence, other than hunger.
“Again,” he said, more firmly this time, though his voice was lower, almost reverent. “Show me again.”
And so she did.
Her fingers rested lightly against his, steadying, showing him where to press. The sound that followed was uneven, halting, but it was music all the same. Elias stilled, as though afraid even a breath might shatter the fragile thing forming between them.
“Good,” Penelope murmured.
He turned his head slightly, studying her profile—the concentration in her brow, the gentle curve of her mouth. There was no fear in her now, only patience. It unsettled him more than his maker ever could. Her skin was so pale, so delicate, he could practically see the blood beneath it as if her complexion—one that housed so much sorrow—was no more than a mere veil.
She guided his hand again, coaxing another note from the piano. He let her, muscles slowly relaxing, the edge of hungerreceding under the simple weight of her touch. Her hands were so small that he feared with one wrong move, he could break her.
The sound was imperfect, but it was also bittersweet. It reminded him of something he had almost forgotten. It reminded him of what it felt like to learn again. The humanity of it.
For the first time in years, perhaps centuries, Elias allowed himself stillness. The hunger did not vanish—it never would, of course—but for that fleeting moment, he let it rest, content to press ivory keys beneath her gentle guidance.
When the melody faltered, silence crept back in. Yet it was not the suffocating silence of before, but something kinder. Something shared.
Penelope glanced up at him then, a question in her eyes. Elias only inclined his head, voice low and steady. “Again.”
“Very well,” she whispered, the corners of her mouth only just lifting a fraction of a hair.
“Very well,” he repeated.
The night greetedhim in silence. Elias’s footsteps echoed faintly across the thatched rooftops, each one dragging him further from the warmth of her presence, further from the fragile reprieve he had stolen from her.
He lifted his hand, staring at the faint red smear that remained beneath his nails. It mocked him—evidence of his weakness, his hunger, his near undoing. He had tasted too much, lingered too long, allowed himself leave when he shouldnot have. One heartbeat more and he would have been lost to her taste.
His hand rose to his mouth, thumb brushing over his lips where her essence lingered. A shudder wracked him. He had been so near—so perilously near—to proving himself the monster he had sworn he would never be again. He had wanted to—no, he yearned to taste her again.
Instead, he had pulled away. Barely.
His jaw tightened, fangs aching in his skull. Was this what passed for restraint? To take and then pretend it meant nothing? He was no better than his maker. Perhaps worse, for he had almost believed himself capable of control.
And yet, she had sat beside him. Guided him. Sat beside him as if he were not a predator, but a man. Offered patience instead of terror.
He closed his eyes, letting the image of her pale hands resting atop his consume him, and the thought filled him with something dangerously close to longing.
“Fool,” he muttered under his breath, quickening his pace. “She will be the end of you.”
But, no—no. This was not longing or yearning or anything else beyond Elias satisfying his hunger and his curiosities.
Anything beyond that was not meant for himself.
Though, he couldn’t stop himself from holding onto that tether—the fragile and distant strand of his humanity, woven into whatever tapestry he was becoming.
But how long could such a tether hold?
How long until there was no differentiating the person he was and the monster he will soon become?
