Chapter 17
PENELOPE
Warmth wrapped around Penelope as Elias pulled her close, his strong arms holding her in place as though he thought she might wish to escape his embrace.
His leg moved between hers, pulling her even closer to the point that his chest pressed against her stomach as his hands found the roundness of her hips.
Her breath hitched, mingling with his, and for a moment the world outside—the rules, the expectations, the looming shadows of Henry and her father—slipped into nothingness.
She stared at him through her lashes. His mess of white hair drew shadows over his hard features.
His eyes were closed and for that moment, he looked at peace.
His lips hovered near hers, teasing, coaxing, and she felt the ache of longing curl deep inside her chest. Every inch of him pressed insistently against her, yet there was restraint in the strength of his hold, a careful devotion that made her heart skip a beat.
“If you keep staring, I might take that as an invitation to take you again, my Little Lamb,” he mumbled, pressing soft kisses against the hollow of her neck, still half asleep.
“You belong to no one but yourself when I am with you,” he murmured, his voice a low rumble that seemed to pull the air from the room.
“And yet, even in this stolen hour, I cannot keep my hands from you.” Elias lifted his head to meet her eyes.
The devotion in his gaze as though she were something to behold, made her breath catch in her throat.
The rays of sunlight slowly streaming into her room caught the redness of his eyes. She found her hands brushing the strands of white behind his ear so that nothing blocked her view of him.
“Elias,” she whispered, half protest, half plea from his wandering hands, “it is morning, you must leave—”
But he silenced her with a brush of lips, a kiss that stole her breath as if it was always his to take.
She pressed closer, feeling the steady, relentless heat of him against her own fragile rhythm, and for a heartbeat, she believed that the world might bend to hold this—just this—between them.
That he might not always have to escape through her window before the sun fully rises.
Yet even as the sun rose, he only chuckled, low and dark, lips brushing hers again—fleeting. “One last moment, Little Lamb,” he murmured, moving to kiss down her neck. “Just until the sun claims the sky and the world reminds us we must part.”
Penelope laughed softly, shoving at his chest as he leaned forward, teasing her with his fangs. “Elias! I—”
“Shh,” he breathed, pressing his forehead to hers. “I would hold you longer, if the world were mine to command.”
“Oh, would you now?”
“Mhm.” His hum rumbled low, dangerous. “I would hold you for all my days.”
“And when the sun rises?”
“Then I’ll remember you,” he said against her lips, each kiss a mess of possession and reverence. “Every heartbeat. Every shiver. Every stolen breath—and it will sustain me until the next time.”
Her breath hitched as his hand traced wicked lines down her stomach, lower, to where he’d kissed her—claimed her—the night before. “And if there isn’t a next time?”
“If you want me, Penelope,” he murmured, voice dark—absolute, “there will always be a next time. For all eternity, if you dare ask for it.”
“Careful, Vampire. That almost sounds like a confession.”
“If you wish it,” he said, teeth grazing her throat, “then it is.”
She wished for it—she yearned for it, with a desperation she had never felt before. To possess his words, his touch, his gaze. To covet him entirely.
Yet no matter how intense her prayer, the sun was still rising.
“I will return tomorrow,” he whispered against her skin as his hand traced a path below her waist. In one fluid motion, he shifted her onto her back, pinning her beneath him, and she was trapped—breathless, shivering, and utterly his. “Promise you will not cry at my absence?”
Penelope laughed, tilting her head up to meet his gaze. “You think yourself so important to me.”
“A vampire can only hope his prey thinks of him,” he teased.
She blinked, and he was already across the room, retrieving his discarded tunic—once again committing the sin of hiding the contour of his muscles from her.
“I am a prey, am I?” she asked, kicking her feet over the bed as she rose to him. Her hands roamed the expanse of his back while he secured his belt, a thrill running through her at the touch.
“Not a prey,” he said, turning to lean against the window. Then, with a sudden pull, he caught her hands again and drew her close, resting his head in her palms. “My prey. My Lamb with skin whiter than any daisy. And all else that dares to come near will only ever scent me upon you.”
She held his face in her hands, pulling him closer to kiss his cheek.
“Well,” she murmured, voice soft but firm, “this prey is telling you that you must leave. Else you might fall prey to those who do not know better—those who cannot understand your… gentle nature.”
“Do not call a vampire gentle,” he laughed, a smirk tugging at his lips.
“Then what do I call you?”
“Call me Romeo, and you, Juliet. For our parting is more sorrowful than any story ever written.”
Penelope could not stop her laughter from escaping her, completely unrestrained. “You cannot quote Shakespeare and think I will swoon for your honeyed words,” she answered, though her voice lacked conviction.
“Of course I cannot.” His gaze lingered on her, heavy, reverent.
“All the poets, all the stories ever told, and yet none hold words so tragic as when I must bid you goodbye. For the only sweetness in parting lies in the syllables of your name—Penelope. Until tomorrow, I will think of your name until I can call to you again.”
“Elias! You must leave.”
“As you wish, Juliet.”
Before she could protest further, his lips found hers—brief yet claiming all the same. And then he was gone, vaulting through the window, swallowed whole by the light of the rising sun. By the real world reminding her of its hold on them once more.
Her lips still tingled. She felt light, untethered, as though Elias’ kiss had stolen her breath only to replace it with something far sweeter. He had held on as long as he dared—longer, perhaps—and she still felt the ghost of his hands at her waist.
She sank back onto her bed, the smile refusing to leave her face. For one stolen moment, she let herself bask in it—in him. Elias.
Yet before she could allow herself true leave to revel in this, this… feeling—
The door creaked. Her father stepped inside, and Penelope hastily pressed her hands to her lap, though her flushed cheeks betrayed her.
He gave her a knowing look, his brows furrowing. “I know you have been keeping something from me.”
The smile faltered on her lips.
“Pardon? I-I am keeping nothing!”
“Oh yes you are! And when was it you were going to tell me? Hm?”
“Father, I am sure I have no idea what you mean—”
“Henry,” her father said at last, his voice sharp with certainty, his mouth drawn in what might have been pride.
“The boy is utterly smitten with you. I see it plain as day. And now—yes, now I understand. That glow upon your face, that sweetness in your step and the hum while you go about the house… it is him. You have returned his affections at last.”
The words dropped like stones into her chest, dragging her down, down, when only moments ago she had been soaring. Penelope’s smile fractured, her breath seizing in her lungs.
Henry.
Of course, it had to be Henry.
“I feared you would never soften toward him, but I was mistaken. You do care for him.”
Care. The word was a mockery. She cared for Elias as one cares for the fire that threatens to devour them—drawn to it, helpless before it, willing to burn just for the promise of warmth.
She cared for the predator who had kissed her as though her very soul were something he could drink from her lips.
She cared for the monster whose hands still haunted her waist, whose parting left her laughing, breathless, aching, undone.
And Henry?
Henry was safety. Henry was duty. He was stone walls and locked doors. Henry was everything her father wanted for her, and nothing she could ever again yearn for.
Penelope’s fingers dug into her skirts, clutching tight as though by sheer force she could hold onto what Elias had given her last night—the heat of him, the reverence in his voice when he spoke her name.
She had kissed ruin and called it salvation.
She had tasted eternity. She had felt him—all of him.
Given herself to him to keep, to ruin. What greater devotion existed outside of their… was it, love? Could she call it love?
She lowered her lashes, hiding her eyes from her father’s gaze. “Yes, Father,” she whispered, though the words sliced her own tongue to pieces.
“I am so proud of you, my dear.”
Her eyes perked up as he continued, crossing the room to sit next to her.
“You are going to be a wife. An exceptional one. Just like your mother was. Mrs. Pencrook, god rest her soul, would be proud too. And to think one day, you will be a mother. What greater joy is there?”
A wife?
A mother?
Why did that future suddenly fill her heart with clay?
Was that her future? Was all the excitement Elias had made her feel truly just fleeting?
“What if,” she started, running her hands nervously down her skirt before meeting her fathers proud gaze. “What if, Henry is not always gentle? What if…” she swallowed over the lump forming in her throat. “What if I were to wish for something else?”
“A husbands job is to teach, and trust in him that he will do that, my love. For his love for you will be present in all of his future teachings. And what else is it that you wish for? You will be a wife and a mother. This is your greatest purpose in life. It is your sacred duty.”
Her throat constricted. She wanted to scream, to tear the words from his lips before they could root themselves into her skin. A wife. A mother. Purpose. As though her soul existed only for the tethering of a ring and the labor of children.
But her lips betrayed her, parting only for silence.
Her father reached for her hand, folding her slender fingers into his broad palm. “Do not fear, Penelope. You will learn to love him. You will learn to find happiness in your duty. Every woman does. It is in your nature.”
Every woman does.
The phrase rang in her skull like a death knell.
She thought of Elias then—his hands, cool and trembling with restraint.
His mouth against hers, desperate as if she were the last thing in the world that could tether him.
There had been no duty in that kiss. No expectation.
Only want. Only ruinous, wretched want that had made her feel alive for the first time in her life.
He allowed her leave to truly wish for something beyond the walls her father—no, her town had built. That all the men had built.
Her father smiled, patting her hand as if to seal the matter. “You are blessed, Penelope. Not all women are given such a match.”
Penelope’s lashes fluttered, her breath shallow, her lips curving into something that resembled a smile but did not reach her eyes. She had never felt less blessed. She had never felt more cursed.
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.