He had seen her almost every night, gave her Eleanor’s letters and yet he had not bitten her. Had not drank from her.How could he when he had hardly managed to stop last time? Still, he could not tell her this. It would only frighten her. Only scare her away.
And if she were frightened, whose arms would she run to? Henry’s? The thought cut deeper than fang or stake. Henry would offersafety, lessons in scripture and civility, while Elias could offer her nothing but desire and lust and a life of looking over her shoulder. A life of feeding him.
He leaned back slightly, unable to resist the teasing, and murmured with a soft lightness. “Seems as though you are almost enjoying our little tryst.”
She froze for just a heartbeat, then shook her head with a mock sternness, voice crisp. “There is no tryst. I am teaching you. That is all.”
He let the words linger between them, savoring the small reprimand even as the corner of her mouth betrayed her faint smile.
He did not speak, did not move. He only watched her, aware of the danger his own feelings carried, yet unable—or unwilling—to pull away.
Not while this fragile closeness remained.
Not while he could simply exist in the warmth of her presence, tasting the impossible, the forbidden, and the exquisite ache of wanting more.
Finally, Penelope looked up from the keys, holding his gaze. “What’s it like… living as a vampire?”
Elias’ brows furrowed, his head tilting as though to better study her. Of all the things his Lamb could ask, that was not one he had expected. For a moment he almost laughed—what a question, when every mortal in her world had been taught to fear the very thought of it. But her eyes held no fear, only a careful curiosity that compelled him to answer.
CouldHenryanswer such a question? He thought not. Only Elias could.
“It is agony most nights,” he admitted, voice low. “Like hearing music through a wall—something beautiful, just out of reach. You know it exists, yet you cannot touch it, cannot claim it as your own.” He paused, letting his gaze linger on her fingers still resting upon the ivory keys. “But then… that first night I heard you play, baring the deepest parts of your soul in each note, for a moment I remembered what it was to feel.”
Her lips parted, her breath catching faintly. “Do you… miss being alive?”
“When I was first turned,” he began, his eyes drifting past her shoulder as though memory itself had weight, “I was nothing. A poor man. I had lost my family to famine and fever. My life as a human was nothing short of pain. And in some twisted way, when my village was attacked by what I knew then as demons, only for me to awaken in my own blood, my senses drowning in euphoria—the night I died became the first time I felt what it was like to live. All the while knowing I never would live again.”
“And what about these?” she asked, gently tracing the scars on his hand.
“A gift from my father,” he admitted, though he did not pull away from her wandering touch. She traced each scar with a reverence that a being like him should never hope to know. “Before he passed, he was a drunk. He was cruel. And strong. An unfortunate combination for me, as it were. He would beat my sister so hard that she would become sick so oft that she hardly kept food down. It is no wonder the famine claimed her. But one day, I told him to stop.”
“And?”
“And I tried,” he admitted, jaw tightening. “I tried to raise my hand against him, to stop him—to protect her. But I was too weak. Too small.Too human. He beat me until I knew what myown blood tasted like. And then, when I was unable to whisper anything beyond begging for forgiveness, he made me place my hands on the table. I thought he would have stopped. But just when I was foolish enough to think him capable of mercy, he took a branch and whipped my hands until he could see bone while he had me recite passages from the bible. A holy man, he would call himself.”
“Why would he do something so cruel to a child?”
Elias’ jaw tightened. He did not answer immediately. The silence was heavy, punctuated only by the quiet flicker of candlelight. “Because cruelty was the only language he knew,” he finally said, voice low, almost a growl. “It was not long after that fever claimed him and famine my sister. I had only just finished digging her grave when I was turned. I used to think that if I had been turned even a week sooner, perhaps I could have saved her.”
Penelope wrapped her hands around his, her touch was possessive yet soft. Delicate. “You never should have had to survive that. I wish there was something I could do—”
“You are listening, Lamb,” he cooed, holding her hand in his, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “That is enough for me.”
There was something in the way that she looked at him, as though part of him were still alive and she recognized it. She heard his words and listened to him. Did not despise him for simply existing. No longer feared him or recoiled from his touch.
For centuries he had believed himself incapable of it. But here, in the fragile hush between storms, he realized that what he felt for her was not only want. It was devotion, longing, something perilously close to… love.
Eventually the storm had passed,but the windows still wept with the remnants of rain. In the dim hush of Penelope’s room, the candles flickered like they, too, were afraid to break the quiet. She sat next to him on the rug, her legs tucked beneath her.
“I fear I might be responsible for the disappearing cats. My music is truly terrible.”
Penelope laughed but did not deny it.
“This is the part where you tell your faithful student that they are not as bad as they think.”
This time, her laughter shook her shoulders as she wiped away her tears. “So you wish me to lie to you, now? I thought you valued honesty.”
Elias inclined his head, pretending to consider. “Perhaps I do. Or perhaps I merely wish to hear you admit it. Either is acceptable.”
