Because now she knew—there was more. There was something beyond the dull safety of duty, beyond Henry’s steady, suffocating teachings.
“Yes, Father,” she whispered. “It is quite the match.”
When he left her, the silence rushed back like a tide. She sank into it, trembling, her lips still tingling with the memory of Elias. The smile he had drawn from her hovered faintly, fragile, even as despair coiled in her ribs.
Even as wetness streaked down her cheeks.
Even as her silent cries filled the room broken by breathless sobs.
Yes, she had always known. Elias was not hers to keep. He had never been hers to keep.
She never should have allowed him past her walls. Because now she would know what eternal hunger felt like each night after the wedding bells rung through the town.
And yet, she could not stop the wanting for him from taking root in her heart.
She would tell him.
She must tell him.
But not yet.
No—she would hold onto this fragile slice of freedom, every heartbeat of it, every heated breath they shared, before the cruel hour came when the church bells filled the town.
18
PENELOPE
The bench was too small for them both, but Penelope didn’t mind. She loved the way his thigh pressed against hers, the way his sleeve brushed her arm whenever he moved. The piano loomed before them, an ancient, untamed thing, and Elias—immortal, merciless Elias—looked almost human as he studied the keys with a frown.
His hands hovered, elegant and unsure, before dropping into another harsh chord. The sound clanged through the room, too loud, too sharp, and he cursed under his breath.
Penelope smiled, unable to help herself. “For someone as ancient as yourself, I am surprised that you let a piano get the better of you.”
His head turned, eyes narrowing, but the heat in his gaze softened when he caught the curve of her grin. “Careful, Lamb. I’ve slain men for less mockery.”
“You should not find such ease in uttering threats, Vampire,” she teased, her hand sliding over his. She pressed his fingers gently onto the ivory, shaping the notes herself.
The sound that came was imperfect, hesitant—but when he looked at her, not the keys, she thought it was the most beautiful music she’d ever heard.
“Why would I stop,” he murmured, lips brushing her temple as his hand left the keys, “when I know how my threats… excite you?”
His other hand had already found her thigh, fingers curling into the folds of her skirts, anchoring her to him.
Penelope tried to laugh, but it caught somewhere in her throat, the sound breaking into a breathless gasp. “Elias—”
“Yes, Lamb?” His smile was wicked, but his gaze softened, reverent even as his thumb stroked the tender skin just below her sex through the thin fabric. “You guide my hands at the keys, but here”—he pressed firmer, closer, teasing—“here, I think you prefer when I do the leading.”
Her lips parted, her retort lost somewhere in the thunder of her pulse. He turned to her, slow, deliberate, as though daring her to pull away.
But she didn’t. She couldn’t.
When his mouth finally touched hers, the piano beneath her hands gave a soft, accidental chord—thin and trembling, the sound of her complete surrender.
“I think,” she whispered against his lips.
“Tell me all that you think,” he whispered back, kissing her again and again.
Her heart thundered in her chest, so loud she wondered if either of them could hear anything beyond that small space that existed between them.
