Penelope sprang from the bench, jumping back.
He tilted his head, a low chuckle escaping as his gaze drifted unhurried over her.
“Even your heart has a melody,” he murmured, his voice dragging over her skin with a rawness that raised every hair along her neck. “A loud one, considering I’ve done nothing…yet.”
She pressed herself back until her spine found the cold edge of her bedpost, her fingers wrapping around the carved wood as if it could anchor her.
He moved without sound—no creak of floorboards, no whisper of cloth—until the space between them felt perilouslythin. The scent of rain on stone and something metallic beneath it lingering in the air.
Her breath caught.
“Still,” he continued as he took another step forward, stopping only when fabric met fabric. “A melody is a melody is a melody. As I am sure you would agree.”
He lifted his scar-painted hand, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear.
“I never gave you permission to enter so—”
He laughed. A loud, deep laugh that for a moment, eased some of the tension that had been suffocating her.
“Ah,” he said, catching his breath. “Let me guess—you’ve a wooden stake and a bundle of garlic hidden somewhere? Perhaps a vial of holy water?”
Her brows knit, and she pressed herself harder into the bedpost.
His eyes dipped to her waist before climbing back up.
“I fear those are only myths, Lamb. Your wooden stake will pierce no deeper than a pin, and your holy water will do nothing but wet my skin. As for garlic—” his mouth curved again, but this time the amusement was sharper “—I prefer it with bread.”
She tried to shift her weight, to edge sideways, but his hand moved. Just enough to rest against the bedpost. The movement was lazy, almost careless, yet it sealed off her escape.
“You smell of fear,” he murmured, his voice so low it crawled up her chest, sending a shiver through her. “And something sweeter beneath it.”
Her pulse thudded loudly in her ears. “I’m not afraid of you,” she lied.
His eyes glinted at that. “Your scent disagrees.”
He leaned in—not touching, but close enough that the faint rise and fall of his breath brushed against her chest. His gaze dropped to her throat.
“You could scream,” he went on, the words curling like smoke. “Call for your father. For the townsmen.” His mouth hovered near her ear. “But you won’t… will you, Lamb?”
The air seemed to thin. Her hands itched to push him away, yet she could not will them to move. Somewhere deep inside, a small voice whispered that it wasn’t just fear rooting her to the spot.
“Not when I come offering something I am sure you have been wanting. Answers to the reason you look out that window every night.”
“You have been watching me?”
“You, your people, other towns too.” His eyes gleamed with something unreadable. “Unless you wish me to think you special?”
Penelope let out a sharp breath as she shook her head. “I need nothing from you. Leave my home at once,Vampire.”
“Nothing?” He tilted his head again, a shadow of amusement in his voice. “Well… it seems she might have sent me on a pointless journey, then. I do hate wasting time, you see.”
The vampire turned and crossed the room to the window, wrenching it open with little effort.
“She?”
The vampire paused, hands braced on the sill, and glanced over his shoulder.
“Do not trouble yourself about it. I told her—supported now only by your lack of interest—that it was useless. Clearly you have enough friends that you do not fret over losing one.”
