Elias’s jaw tightened, a slow, deliberate tension that ran like steel through his spine. “Excitement,” he repeated, the word tasting bitter on his tongue. He pictured Penelope, head bent politely, laughter careful and measured, speaking with Henry—the warmth in her voice meant for another. The thought pressed cold and heavy in his chest.
Would she be happy withHenry?
Eleanor paused, knife poised mid-chop, and glanced up at him, sensing the shift. “Do not tell me that such a notion disturbs you,” she said quietly, though her eyes flitted to the subtle twitch of his hand, the tension in the line of his shoulders.
“Of course not. I am simply wondering what Henry looks like. Knowing the men in your town, likely the rear end of a mule. Not to insult the mule of course. What I harbor is curiosity alone. Nothing more.”
He let the words hang. There was truth there—and omission. He would not lie to Eleanor, but neither would he confess the storm of possessiveness, of longing, that gnawed at him whenever Penelope’s name crossed his mind.
“The letters are on the counter,” Eleanor mumbled. “I will call for you when there are more.”
The fox padded closer to him, resting its head against his ankle. Elias allowed himself a fraction of a smile.
For now, he watched, waited, and ensured the world did not intrude upon what fragile moments he had been granted with Penelope.
After all, he reminded himself with quiet rigor, he was merely passing time with her. Nothing more. Nothing less.
“And Elias,” Eleanor’s voice cut across his thoughts. She looked up at him, brows knitted, her eyes flicking between his.“Be careful. Henry’s family… they are not like the others of our town. There are rumors that the real reason they left was not for their son’s study but to—” she faltered, yet still held his gaze.
“To what?” His voice was even, but the air sharpened with unease.
Her grip tightened on the knife. “To hunt vampires.”
11
ELIAS
Nights had passed with what seemed like hopeless lessons. Five nights and Elias was no better than he was when they had started.
However, Penelope had grown comfortable with his presence. She did not flinch at his touch when their fingers brushed nor did she startle when he appeared in the window.
A storm thundered outside, allowing them an extra barrier of privacy. Candles flickered across Penelope’s room, their light trembling over the edges of the piano and the worn rug beneath them. Penelope’s hands hovered above the keys, deliberate and careful, each note precise. He watched enthralled—not just by her skill, but by the way she commanded the room, the space, and, unintentionally, him.
Henry could never look at her like this. Of that Elias was certain. To Henry, she was only a union to be secured, an audience for his teachings. To Elias, she was the only music in a silence that had lasted centuries.
“You hold your wrist too stiffly,” she said softly, leaning in close to adjust his fingers. The brush of her hand, brief yet deliberate, sent a thrill curling through him.
She touched him with such unbothered ease, unaware of how she was starting to affect him.
Yet that ease twisted something sharp inside him. For as she grew comfortable in his presence, she also walked each afternoon with Henry. Civil,properHenry. Godly Henry. Church-going Henry. Henry, who smiled with all the earnestness of a man who thought he knew the world, who thought he had the right to dictate it. Henry, whose very family came to town with whispers of hunting. Did she know? Did she care? Or worse—did she admire him for it?
Elias was not a stalker, though he could fool himself with how oft he was now watching Penelope whilst she spent time withHenry.
He loathed the sight of her enduring his sermons about virtue. She did not smile at Henry the way she smiled at him now. Did not let him close enough to see that flush of pink at her cheeks.
No—that was a gift reserved only for Elias.
“I am learning,” he murmured, though the words were half excuse, half confession.
“Learning does not mean rushing,” she said. “You will never play anything worth listening to if you are distracted.”
He caught her gaze lingering on him for a moment longer than necessary, smiling faintly. “Distracted? By what, pray tell?”
She raised an eyebrow, lips twitching with the tiniest, knowing smile. “By the keys, by the music, or perhaps…” her voice trailed off as a pink dusted her cheeks.
“Or perhaps?” he repeated, reveling in the way her heart danced under his gaze.
Then, she whispered so quietly even he hardly heard it. “Hunger.”
