Chapter 90
Elena's POV
The emergency room was nearly empty at this hour, all fluorescent brightness and antiseptic smell. Caleb carried me through the automatic doors without breaking stride, and I was too exhausted to protest the way I might have under different circumstances.
A young nurse at the intake desk looked up, her eyes immediately going to my face. Her expression shifted from professional concern to something sharper, more alert. "Was it him?" she asked bluntly, her gaze flicking to Caleb. "Did he do that to you?"
"No!" The denial came out too quickly. "No, it was—my father hit me."
The nurse's posture relaxed fractionally, and she pulled up a form on her computer. "Alright. Let me get some information. Have your boyfriend wait out here while we get you examined."
I opened my mouth to correct her, to explain that Caleb wasn't—but he just nodded, his hand briefly touching my shoulder before he stepped back. "I'll be right here."
My heart skipped a beat.
The doctor who examined me was efficient and kind, checking my vision, asking about dizziness, then ordering X-rays for my ankle. By the time the films came back showing just soft tissue damage, it was nearly one in the morning. A nurse appeared with a wheelchair. "Your boyfriend can push you," she said to Caleb, matter-of-fact. "Don't let her walk on that ankle."
Again, he didn't correct her. He simply took hold of the wheelchair and started pushing, and I sat there with my hands folded in my lap.
He carried me back to the car, then from the parking garage to his manor. My face ended up pressed against his shoulder at some point, and I mumbled, "This is kind of excessive."
"Doctor's orders," he said simply. "You're supposed to stay off that foot."
"But aren't your arms tired—"
"No."
The gate opened slowly. I could feel his heartbeat against my cheek, steady and strong. My breath ghosted across the exposed skin at his collar, and I became suddenly, intensely aware of how close we were, how warm he was, how my lips were maybe three inches from the vulnerable line of his throat.
"Elena." His voice had gone lower, rougher. "Stop breathing on my neck."
Heat flooded my face. I jerked my head back, which only gave me a perfect view of his jaw, the movement of his Adam's apple when he swallowed, the tension in every line of his body. There was something unbearably intimate about noticing these details—the exact texture of his skin, the faint shadow of stubble, the way a muscle jumped in his cheek when I shifted slightly in his arms.
My heart hammered. Deep inside, there was a yearning sound.
For half a second, Caleb's eyes flashed amber before he looked away, jaw clenching hard. He carried me down the hall without another word, his breathing carefully controlled.
In the living room, he set me on the sofa and knelt to help me out of my shoes, replacing them with slippers. Then he took my hand, his amber eyes meeting mine with an intensity that made it impossible to breathe.
"What you said on the phone," he started, his voice low and deliberate. "About wanting time. I'll wait." His thumb brushed across my knuckles. "But what about what I want?"
I looked at him, seeing the man who'd waited for me with more patience than I deserved, who'd caught me every time I fell.
I leaned forward and kissed the corner of his mouth.
Soft. Tentative. An answer.
The instant my lips left his, I jerked back like I'd been burned.
Oh God. What did I just do?
Caleb had gone completely still.
His eyes flashed amber—just for a second, but I saw it. That wild, inhuman gold bleeding through his pupils before he blinked it away. His breathing turned rough and uneven. His fingers gripped the armrest so hard his knuckles went white.
I could see every muscle in his shoulders and arms pulled taut, like something inside him was fighting to break free.
The air between us felt electric. Dangerous.
"Caleb—"
He stood abruptly. The movement was so sudden I flinched.
But he didn't look at me. He just turned and walked—almost fled—to the open kitchen. I watched his rigid back as he yanked open the fridge and grabbed a bottle of ice water. He drained half of it in one go, his throat working, his other hand braced against the counter.
I sat frozen on the couch.
Is he angry?
Did I scare him?
When he finally came back, his eyes had returned to normal brown. But his voice came out low and rough: "Your ankle needs ice."
He knelt in front of me with an ice pack from the freezer.
His movements were mechanical—careful, precise, but completely detached. He lifted my injured foot, positioned the ice pack, adjusted the angle. The whole time, he didn't meet my eyes. He focused on my ankle like it was the only thing in the room.
"Caleb."
No response.
"Are you...mad at me?"
He shook his head. Still wouldn't look up.
"Then why are you—"
"I'll get you some clean clothes." He stood, already moving toward the stairs.
"Caleb—wait!"
He stopped. His shoulders were so tense I thought they might crack.
I didn't know what to say. My heart was hammering too hard, my thoughts spinning out. The kiss had been my choice, my move—but his reaction made me feel like I'd made a terrible mistake.
Maybe Damon was right.
Maybe Caleb just wanted revenge.
Maybe he never wanted this at all.
"I'm sorry," I managed, my voice getting smaller. "I shouldn't have—if it made you uncomfortable, I can—"
"You misunderstood."
"I'm not refusing you, Elena," he continued.
He caught my wrist, pulling my hand into his palm.
"Then why..." I stared at him, confused. Scared.
Something flickered in those amber eyes. Something between pain and hunger.
"Because I'm afraid I won't be able to control myself."
My breath caught.