Chapter 70
Elena's POV
I woke to a familiar scent and the strange awareness that I wasn't alone.
My eyes opened slowly, gritty and sore. The room came into focus—the guest bedroom at Caleb's place.
And Caleb was right there, slumped in the chair beside the bed, his head resting on his folded arms near my hip.
He looked awful. Dark circles under his eyes. Jaw tight even in sleep. His hair was a mess, and he'd rolled up his sleeves at some point during the night. I could see the edge of a scar on his forearm—silver burn, probably—and another peeking out from his collar.
He'd stayed. All night.
I didn't move. Didn't breathe too loudly. Just stared at him.
Then his eyes opened. No grogginess, no slow blink into awareness. Just instant alertness, the way predators wake when they sense movement.
"You okay?" His voice was rough, scratchy.
I nodded.
He sat up slowly, wincing as his spine cracked, and reached for something on the nightstand. The thermometer. "Let me check."
Before I could argue, he pressed it to my forehead. The beep seemed loud in the quiet room.
97.4°F.
He stared at the reading for a second, then exhaled like he'd been holding his breath. "Good. You're okay."
"You didn't have to—"
"I know." He cut me off gently. Stood up, stretched, his shirt riding up just enough to show a sliver of abs. I couldn't look away. "I'm going to make breakfast. You hungry?"
"I—yeah. Thank you."
---
Twenty minutes later, I sat at his kitchen island, staring at a plate of scrambled eggs, toast, and bacon. It wasn't fancy, but it was there. Hot food, made for me.
Damon never had—he'd send staff to bring me food, or he'd take me to expensive restaurants where I'd feel too anxious to eat.
But Caleb just… did it. Put a plate in front of me. Poured hot milk. Sat down across from me with his own food and ate like it was normal.
I watched him take a bite of toast, the way his jaw moved, the casual elegance in every motion even when he was doing something as mundane as eating breakfast. And I remembered last night in the car, when he'd almost kissed me.
My face went hot.
"You're staring." He didn't look up from his plate, but his mouth twitched. Almost a smile.
"I wasn't—"
"You were." Now he did look up, amber eyes catching the morning light. "Keep doing it and I'll start charging rent."
I choked on my milk. He smirked, actually smirked, and went back to his eggs.
God, I was so screwed.
---
Halfway through breakfast, I remembered Damon's threat. My stomach dropped.
"Caleb." My voice came out smaller than I wanted. "Yesterday, Damon... because of me, he might come after you."
Caleb's fork paused halfway to his mouth. He set it down carefully.
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to drag you into—"
"Elena." He said my name like a command. I shut up. "You didn't drag me anywhere."
"But if he comes—"
"Let him." Caleb's voice went cold. Flat. The voice he used when he was working very hard not to feel anything.
"But—"
Before I could respond, his phone buzzed on the counter. He glanced at it, frowned, and stood.
"Work call. Give me a minute."
He walked toward the floor-to-ceiling windows, put the phone to his ear. "Hector."
I couldn't hear the other side of the conversation, but I watched Caleb's posture change. Stiffen. His free hand curled into a fist.
"When?" Pause. "How bad?" Another pause. His voice dropped, cold and clinical. "I didn't ask."
My stomach twisted. Something was wrong.
Caleb said a few more things—work arrangements, probably—then ended the call. Stood there for a second, then turned back to me.
"Randy had an episode last night." His tone was utterly neutral. Like he was reading a weather report. "Tried to shift and got stuck halfway. Lower body won't transform back. He's in the ER."
I nearly dropped my fork. "Is he—"
"Critical condition. They don't know if he'll make it." Caleb sat back down, picked up his coffee. Took a sip. "Hector wanted to know if I'd visit."
"Will you?"
"No."
"Caleb—"
"Eat your breakfast, Elena. It's getting cold."
He wouldn't meet my eyes.
---
An hour later, I was pacing Caleb's living room while he worked in his office. I'd tried to sit still. Tried to focus on the book I'd started three times. But my mind kept circling back to Randy.
Randy, Grandfather's best friend. Who used to bring me meat pies when I was little. Who'd pat my head and call me "sweet girl."
Yes, he'd been cold about the blood pact. Yes, he'd made me feel like a broodmare at that awful dinner. But he'd also been… kind. Once.
And now he was in critical condition, and Caleb wouldn't even ask how he was.
I understood why. God, I understood. The Vance family had treated Caleb like garbage for his entire life. Randy had allowed it. Caleb owed him nothing.
But still.
I stopped in front of the office door. Raised my hand. Knocked.
"Come in."
Caleb sat behind a massive desk, laptop open, papers scattered everywhere. He looked up when I entered, expression guarded.
"I know you and Randy... and the Vance family..." I twisted my hands together. "I know there's history. Bad history."
"Elena—"
"But he's still your grandfather." The words came out in a rush. "Even though he hasn't always treated you well, he hasn't been completely heartless. You..." I swallowed. "Could you... make a call?"
Caleb leaned back in his chair, studying me.
"Why should I listen to you?" he asked finally.
I blinked. "What?"
"You want me to be a good grandson. Forgiving." His voice was calm, but there was an edge underneath. "Is that what you need from me?"
"That's not—"
"He was kind to me when I was little." My voice cracked. "I hope someone would check on him. Even if we've had unpleasantness. Even if things are complicated."
The honesty seemed to surprise him. He blinked, some of the hardness leaving his face.
"Please," I added quietly.
He stared at me for a long moment. Then shook his head. "No."
My heart sank.
"But," he continued, "I could be persuaded."
"Persuaded how?"
He stepped closer. Close enough that I had to tilt my head back to hold his gaze. Close enough that I could smell cedar and smoke and something wild underneath.
"A kiss," he said softly.
My brain short-circuited. "What?"
"You want me to make a phone call I have zero interest in making. That's a favor. Favors have prices." His eyes dropped to my mouth, then back up. "One kiss."
"Caleb—"
"And," he cut me off, voice dropping lower, "you have to be the one who does it."
I stared at him. At his mouth, which I'd kissed drunk and desperate at the ski lodge. At his eyes, which were watching me with an intensity that made my knees weak.
My heart slammed against my ribs. The air between us felt electric, charged with something I didn't have a name for.
He wasn't joking. He was completely, utterly serious.