The morning was bright, the garden heavy with the perfume of late autumn. Her father spoke of duties, of alliances, of the future laid out like the stone path at her feet. Penelope listened with bowed head, though her mind lingered elsewhere—on the unruly vampire, on large hands gripping her thighs, of fangs piercing her skin. All the while her father spoke of his plans for the monsters—for Elias.
“Of course,” her father continued, calling her attention from the stems she had been clipping. “One can never place human behaviors on monsters. They are no different than beasts.”
“Yes, Father,” she echoed, clipping another stem.
“One day, I will make sure this world is safe for you.”
Was it not safe? Elias, though a vampire, had not harmed her—not truly. And he had even listened to her as though she held any importance in her words when she was teaching him to play.
It was all so confusing.
Her father had always warned her of the dangers of monsters and yet—well, Elias had not revealed himself to be dangerous. In fact, the opposite were true. He had given her leave to make a choice.Her own choice. He delivered upon her no teachings nor force. He had stopped when she had commanded it. When she had commandedhim.
He had conversed with her as though they were equals.
And Eleanor…if she had not been taken, did that mean she had gone willingly? Could she have been happy all along… with a monster? The very thought ought to have insulted Penelope. Yet Elias’ words, the rawness of them, had burrowed deep.
Perhaps it was true. Perhaps—
Penelope took in a sharp breath, her finger pulsing. Looking down, she realized she had pricked her finger on a thorn. She watched as the bead of crimson grew until it finally trickled down the curve of her finger.
Was her blood really so good as to earn such a reaction from Elias? So much…pleasure? Because of her?
“Miss Adams?”
She startled, clutching her basket tighter, as a man stooped gracefully before her. He was tall, though not so tall as Elias, with brown hair combed neatly back, a white tunic beneath a fitted blue jacket, and a bow tie at his throat. His eyes—brown, earnest, arrestingly steady—fell upon her, and something in their depths struck her as almost familiar.
“You’ve hurt yourself.”
Before she could protest, he caught her wrist with a sure, practiced grip. His thumb skimmed too near the welling drop of blood, and her breath snagged at the impropriety of it.
“Sir!” she gasped, tugging lightly. “It is not—you mustn’t—”
“Hold still.” His tone was easy, teasing, though his touch remained steady as he pulled a folded white handkerchief from his breast pocket. He wrapped it carefully about her finger, his head bent close, the scent of starch and clean linen clinging to him. “One mustn’t let a rose steal your blood. You are already drained of color. Any more, and I fear you might disappear.”
Penelope’s lips parted, her cheeks hot. She ought to scold him, to call for her father, to remind him sharply of his liberties. Instead she stammered. “If this is how you make first impressions, might I remind you that before you presume to get close to a Lady, one should first wish to grant her fathers leave,Sir.”
The man looked up then, and a smile tugged at his mouth. “So you don’t remember me.”
Her brows knit, breath catching. “Remember—?”
“Henry Whitlock.” His grin widened, warm as summer. “Though I suppose it has been many years since you last scowled at me.”
Her basket nearly slipped from her arm. “Henry?” she breathed, searching his face anew, and there it was—the boy who used to race her down the lane, now sharpened into aman. A man that was touching her with so much ease.
“You’ve not changed at all,” he teased, though his gaze lingered on her longer than it ought to.
“And you…” Her voice faltered, shy and low as she pulled her hand away—now wrapped tight in his once white handkerchief. “Clearly not much has changed. Your manners still seem the same.”
“You still scowl when you’re flustered,” he cut in, eyes alight with mischief.
She had been so lost in her own dizzying thoughts that she had not noticed he had arrived.
“You look…” she started, her eyes dancing between his.
“Dashing?” he asked, a smirk playing at his lips.
“Different,” she corrected.
