Chapter 11 Elias
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, proper Henry. 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 with Henry.
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.”
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 offer safety, 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.
Could Henry answer 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 my own 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.”
Penelope’s lips curved, a faint blush dusting her cheeks. “Flattery now? You must grow bold in your old age, Vampire.”
“I have learned from the best teacher,” he murmured, letting his gaze linger on her for just a heartbeat too long.
“And I am…?” she asked, arching a brow, teasing him back.
“Patient,” he replied, voice low, almost a confession. “And remarkably difficult to resist,” he mocked, pretending to lunge at her with his fangs bared, but rather than scream, she only laughed harder, shielding her face with her hands.
As of late, her laughter had become a music he wished to covet.
“Oh please do not eat me, Mr. Vampire!”
Elias allowed the shadow of a grin to tug at his lips. “I make no promises, Miss Adams. You have been most… tempting company.”
Penelope wrinkled her nose in mock offense, though the corners of her mouth twitched. “Tempting, am I? And yet, you have not taken a sip since we made our deal. I must say, I am disappointed in your restraint. I must taste something terrible.”
“You may consider it disappointment,” he replied, his voice low and teasing, “or a display of my… admirable patience. And your taste is… far from terrible.”
Penelope’s blush deepened, and she laughed softly, shaking her head. “You grow bold, Vampire.”
“Perhaps,” he murmured, letting his gaze linger on her for a heartbeat too long.
Penelope pressed her hands to her chest, shaking her head with a laugh. “But you are truly a terrible student.”
Elias chuckled softly, the sound rich and unguarded. “I believe you are being an unfair teacher. It has only been a few days, I beg for some grace. At this rate, I shall never hand over these letters.”
Penelope leaned a little closer, eyes glinting. “Well then, you will read one to me, yes? You cannot hide them forever.”
Elias’ gaze flicked to the stack of letters Eleanor had left, then back to her flushed, expectant face. He hesitated, savoring the quiet intimacy, before finally conceding. “Very well,” he murmured, reaching for the nearest ribbon-tied letter. “But only one—for now.”
Her scent—lavender, parchment, the faintest trace of blood—threatened to intoxicate him as she leaned in, trying to read the words inked on the parchment.
Elias loosened the ribbon and pulled free a letter. He didn’t open it immediately. His eyes lingered on her—her flushed cheeks from the firelight, the slight downturn of her mouth, the way her breath caught when she thought no one could hear.
Then he unfolded the letter and began to read.
“She says… she misses the way your music could capture even the deepest of truths from someone, as if your notes could snare souls,” Elias read, voice steady but low.
“She said that when you play and the light hit you just right, she was sure she saw something divine—something not quite human, not quite earthly either. As if you had come from some other world.”
Penelope smiled faintly, ducking her head. “Eleanor always was a bit dramatic.”
“I agree. But not about this.”
“What else did she write?”
“She says,” he continued, “that she often wonders about how you are faring. Not what you tell people. Not the way you smile. But the sadness behind your eyes. The one you don’t think anyone notices.”
“She wrote that?” Penelope’s brows drew together. She leaned in closer, pressing gently against him as she tried to glimpse the letter.
The truth was, the letter had been shorter than usual. Updates on their movements, well wishes for her and her father. Eleanor hadn’t said any of what he’d spoken aloud.
He’d chosen the words he wished had been written. Because he couldn’t bear to say them as his own.
He leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees. His voice, when it came again, was low—almost confessional.
“She misses you. Says there’s no one quite like you in the Evermore forest.”
“I am sure she can find more me’s. I am not exactly special. Not like her.”
“I am not so sure about that,” he spoke under his breath.
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?