He dropped down from the rooftop with ease, keeping in the shadows as he made his way to the edge of the forest.
Penelope was not meant for him. He was sure of that.
Still, the thought of her father so willing to sell her off to another man settled in his stomach like stone.
And who was Henry? She had not answered him.
Elias stilled as he approached the tree line, not turning.
“I know you are there,” he said firmly.
For a moment there was only silence, then the soft press of small feet on dirt. Elias turned, gaze sharpening.
The fox emerged from the shadows—the same one he had freed. Its ears drew back, gold eyes catching the moonlight as they locked with his own.
“You have been following me all day,” Elias murmured, crouching to the creature’s level. His voice, usually sharp, softened into something closer to wonder. “I told you to go. So why are you here?”
The fox stilled, head tilting, as though it might answer. Its golden eyes gleamed—accusing, knowing.
Elias let out a quiet breath, gaze lowering to the scar that marked its survival. “Ah,” he whispered, almost to himself. “Perhaps you are as much a fool as I. Perhaps you think I will protect you?”
The fox only stared back.
“Well, you are wrong,” Elias muttered, straightening. “If you want a master, there is a Horseman here who delights in taking in pests. You would fare better with him.”
Elias rose to his feet and continued his walk home. No more than a few footsteps passed before he heard it—the quick, persistent pitter-patter of paws at his heels. Elias stilled, jaw tightening. He did not turn, though the sound followed faithfully when he moved again.
“You test me,” he said flatly, voice pitched to the dark.
Still, the creature padded along, unafraid.
A humorless laugh escaped him, low and sharp. “You are worse than a Lamb I know. A scar does not make you wise,little fox. It only proves you survived once.” His eyes narrowed, though a strange weight tugged at his chest. “Do not mistake survival for safety. You are a predator. You will never be safe from huntsmen.”
And yet, even as he spoke, Elias did not drive it off. He only lengthened his stride, and the fox lengthened its own, two shadows slipping deeper into the woods together.
By the time he reached his home, he had almost tuned out the beating of the little beast’s heart and the rhythmic pattern of its steps.
Elias stepped inside and before the fox could follow, closed the door behind him.
Silence finally started to sooth his nerves until—
The creature started scratching at the door, its claws dragging down the wood accompanied by a high-pitched whimper that was almost puppy-like.
Elias’ jaw tightened. He pressed his palm to the door, feeling the vibration of its insistence. “Persistent little beasty,” he muttered under his breath.
The scratching did not stop.
A low growl rose in his throat, but he turned away all the same, stalking deeper into the empty rooms of his house.
Let it scratch. Let it wait.
If it wanted a master, it would learn quickly Elias was the worst choice it could make.
8
PENELOPE
It is said that a young lady may walk among roses and be unable to tell the flowers that have just bloomed from the ones on the precipice of withering. That only fate could decide such things and no amount of watering could change this. Society, of course, insists that such choices are already made long before the flower ever blooms—carved into women with teachings and expectations. Yet Penelope, with her head bent to the shrubs of roses and her basket balanced lightly against her arm, was beginning to suspect that fate was far less orderly than her father would prefer.
