Chapter 176
Elena's POV
Caleb stepped inside, his coat still on, phone in hand. His eyes immediately found mine, then snapped to Donald. The temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees.
He crossed the space in three long strides, positioning himself slightly in front of me. His hand found mine, warm and solid.
"Cross." Caleb's voice was ice. "You weren't invited."
"I'm here to see my daughter—"
"She doesn't want to see you."
Donald's face flushed red. "You have no right—"
"I have every right." Caleb's grip on my hand tightened fractionally. "This is my home. She's my fiancée. And you're trespassing."
The air crackled with tension. I felt my pulse hammering against my ribs.
"Elena." Donald looked past Caleb, directly at me. "Please. We're family. You can't just—"
"Family?" The word tore out of me before I could stop it. "When did you ever treat me like family?"
"I raised you—"
"You sold me!" My voice rose, shaking. "You told me to marry Damon. You told me to crawl into his bed. You hit me when I said no. That's not family. That's ownership."
"Elena—"
"No." I stepped forward, still gripping Caleb's hand. "I'm done. Do you understand? I don't owe you anything. Not loyalty. Not obedience. Nothing."
Donald's face had gone from red to ashen. "If you walk away from this family, you'll have nothing—"
"She has me."
Caleb's voice cut through the room like a blade. He turned his head slightly, amber eyes meeting mine for one brief, burning second. Then he looked back at Donald.
"She doesn't need your family," he continued, each word measured and final. "She doesn't need your approval."
"You think you can just—"
"Get out."
The command in Caleb's voice made even me flinch. Donald's mouth snapped shut.
"If you come here again," Caleb said softly, dangerously, "you'll regret it. Are we clear?"
For a long moment, Donald just stood there. I watched the emotions cycle across his face—anger, desperation.
Then he turned on his heel and walked out.
The door closed behind him with a solid click.
I stood frozen, my hand still clasped in Caleb's, listening to the sound of my father's car pulling away down the drive.
"Elena."
Caleb's voice was gentler now. I looked up at him, and something in my chest finally loosened.
"He's gone." His thumb brushed over my knuckles.
I let out a shaky breath. "Thank you."
"Don't thank me." His jaw was still tight, tension radiating off him in waves. "I should have been here—"
I frowned, my fingers clenching tight. "I managed to break free from him, but my mother is still trapped in that relationship."
Caleb's expression shifted, something unreadable flickering across his face before settling into careful neutrality. He leaned back slightly, creating just enough distance that I felt the absence of his warmth. "Your mother and your father completed a marking. Severing that connection would bring severe physiological pain."
"But they clearly don't love each other anymore." My voice came out sharper than intended. "How could there be a genuine mate bond?"
He was quiet for a long moment, his amber eyes fixed on some point beyond my shoulder. When he finally spoke, his tone carried a weight that made my chest tighten. "The bond can also be established through family-arranged ceremonies."
The words hit me like a physical blow. I stared at him, comprehension dawning in slow, horrifying waves. "So all these years, she was forced to bind herself to someone she didn't love?"
"Perhaps." His jaw tightened. "That's precisely why I never believed in blood pact unions. They transform fated mates into transactions."
My throat constricted. I thought of my mother's colorless eyes, the words she'd said in the hospital. "I want to help her. But I don't know how."
Caleb's hand found mine, warm and solid. The gesture felt deliberate, almost rehearsed, as if he'd been waiting for permission to touch me. "Breaking the bond requires professional ritual intervention and pharmacological treatment. If your mother is willing, I can connect her with physicians I trust."
The offer was so unexpected, so generous, that I felt tears prick at my eyes. I nodded, not trusting my voice. "I'll ask her. I'll talk to her about it."
"Take your time. These conversations are never easy."
---
8:14 PM. The day had somehow slipped away. My stomach chose that moment to protest audibly.
"I should make dinner," I said, already mentally cataloging the contents of his refrigerator.
Caleb checked his watch. "Too late. We'll order in."
Relief and disappointment tangled in my chest. I wasn't confident enough in my cooking skills to do it regularly for him.
We settled at the dining table, both scrolling through delivery apps in comfortable silence. Old George's Meat Pies—my mouth was already watering at the thought of their signature beef and ale filling. As I was about to confirm the order, Caleb reached across and added mushroom soup and a slice of strawberry tart.
I looked up, startled. "How did you know I like those?"
"Your eyes stayed on them for more than three seconds." His tone was matter-of-fact, as if memorizing my food preferences was the most natural thing in the world.
Heat crept up my neck. "You're very observant."
"Only about things that matter." He handed his phone back to me to finalize the order. "Forty minutes."
While we waited, Caleb wanted to go upstairs to change. As he passed the sofa, his steps faltered almost imperceptibly. I followed his gaze and felt my stomach drop.
There, partially hidden in the corner of the cushions, was the ball of cedar-colored yarn and my knitting needles. I'd completely forgotten to hide them.
"What are you making?" His voice was carefully neutral, but the precise way he formed the question told me he already knew.
I froze, my mind going utterly blank. "Ah?"
He walked over and picked up one of the needles, examining it with the same intense focus he brought to everything.
"That's—I mean—" I reached for the needle. "You shouldn't look! It's not finished!"
Caleb sidestepped smoothly, keeping the needle just out of reach. There was something almost playful in the movement, a rare lightness.
"A sweater for you, but it's not finished yet. I wanted it to be a surprise."
The corner of his mouth twitched. Not quite a smile, but close enough that my embarrassment shifted into something warmer.
"I look forward to seeing it finished."
---
After dinner, we cleaned up together. He carried the trash bag while I rinsed our hands at the kitchen sink, our shoulders nearly touching in the narrow space.
"Thank you," I said suddenly. "For today."
He turned to look at me, water still dripping from his fingers. "For what?"
"For giving me courage. For offering to help my mother. For always being here." The words tumbled out before I could second-guess them, raw and honest in a way that left me feeling exposed.
Caleb shut off the water, then handed me a towel. "I told you before. You don't have to face things alone."
But the way he said it—quiet, almost fierce—made it sound less like reassurance and more like a vow.