She rested her chin on her knees again, and Elias placed the letter back with the others. He didn’t hand them over. Not yet.
Not while this quiet between them still lived.
Not while he could bask in this borrowed closeness.
What was she doing to him? Each glance, each laugh, each fleeting brush of her hand left him stranded from himself. Years of restraint, of endlessness, disciplined hunger seemed suddenly brittle in her presence. She was no longer just a distraction, no longer simply his Lamb. She was something far more—impossible, intoxicating, and wholly his undoing.
What was this feeling?
12
PENELOPE
As of late, Elias made habit of staying beyond the lessons and the letters. And, to her own surprise, she found herself wishing he would stay a moment longer when he left. She enjoyed their conversations and felt as though she did not have to hide herself away, or bow her head before him. She did not need to cower or make herself quiet.
The letters sat discarded as they laid down on her bed, staring up at the ceiling.
Henry had been so sure of his view of vampires. They were killers, monsters born from death. Yet everything about Elias screamed life. How many vampires had Henry killed that were just like Elias? And how many had Elias slain that were no different from her—innocent, unaware, caught in the wrong place at the wrong time?
Her chest tightened at the thought. The line between predator and protector blurred with every moment shared with him. And she, impossibly, found herself longing for it all—the risk, the forbidden closeness, the reckless pull that held her attention.
“Have you ever killed someone?” she finally asked, her voice barely audible above the hush.
He turned to her. “What?”
“I am curious. I promise I will not judge.”
Elias did not answer at once. He only looked at her, the way someone might look at a painting they could never touch. Something he wanted to hold and yet feared to ruin. His expression was stiff as he took in a breath, releasing it with what seemed like unease.
“Yes,” he whispered finally, voice tight. “But… it was centuries ago. When I was first turned.” He swallowed and clenched his hands in the sheets beneath him. “My maker… he was cruel. Unmerciful. And at first… I was like him.”
“Like him?”
“Yes,” he said, jaw tight, eyes dark. “I was reckless, cruel, unthinking. I drank from the living without care. I hurt, because I could, because I knew I could. Because I knew humans were weak and I wasnevergoing to be weak again. I reveled in the power, the hunger, the fear. I was… a perfect monster. And eventually I realized, I had become even worse than my father.”
He turned his face away. “I cannot speak of it lightly… because what I was, what I allowed myself to be… it haunts me. It waits beneath my skin despite years of trying—futilely—to teach myself restraint, to teach myself mercy.Kindness.”
Her fingers brushed his arm, running down his skin until she covered his hand in hers hesitantly, and he flinched, though he did not pull away. “But… you aren’t like that now,” she murmured.
“No,” he breathed, voice low, almost breaking, while turning to meet her gaze. “Not entirely. But when I am near you…. what I feel is no longer mere hunger. It is something I cannot contain with will alone. And it terrifies me. I could hurt you. I could kill you. And it would be so easy. And worst of all, if I hurt you, Icould enjoy it. And I never wish to know what it feels like to take pleasure in your agony.”
He leaned closer, the heat between them palpable, sheets warm beneath their weight. “I should not feel this for you. I should not touch you. I could ruin you in an instant, and yet I…” he broke off, his eyes flicking from hers down to her lips causing her heart to fall into the pits of her stomach. “I cannot stay away.”
Her hand moved to his, fingers trembling as they lingered over his. “Then let me be here,” she whispered. “Neither one of us has to be alone in this.”
She drew a shaky breath, the scent of him—oak and pine, parchment, and that subtle thread of blood—curling through her senses. The bed beneath them seemed suddenly too small, the space too intimate, yet impossibly necessary. His fingers hovered over her skin, trembling, barely daring to brush.
“Sounds complicated,” she managed.
“Perhaps, complicated would be the preferred answer. How I feel about being what I am, of what I was, is nothing short of complicated.”
Her voice trembled. “Are you… afraid of me?”
Elias gave a quiet, humorless breath. “Terrified. Question is, why do you not fear me, when you are the very thing I hunt? The very thing I desire to devour?”
They sat like that for a long moment—their hands interlaced as they laid on her bed, his eyes unable to stay away from her neck, from her lips.
Then, without speaking, she moved closer. Just a fraction.
