Chapter 74
Elena's POV
I woke up to pale light seeping through the guest room curtains. My eyes felt gritty, my head heavy. I hadn't slept much.
Every time I'd closed my eyes, I'd seen him—standing in this room, his gaze dropping for just a fraction of a second to the gap in my shirt before snapping away. The way his jaw had tightened.
Just thinking about it made my face burn.
I stared at the ceiling, my body hyperaware of every sound from the living room. The faint creak of the sofa. The rustle of fabric.
Get a grip, Elena.
But I couldn't. Because the truth was becoming impossible to ignore: my wolf didn't just tolerate Caleb. She craved him.
I pushed myself upright, running my hands through my tangled hair. I grabbed my dry clothes from the dryer, pulled them on, and took a deep breath.
Just get through breakfast. Then go home. Figure things out.
---
When I stepped into the living room, Caleb was already awake. Of course he was.
He stood in the open kitchen, plating toast and scrambled eggs with quiet efficiency. Coffee was brewing, steam curling lazily from the pot. A glass of milk sat on the counter, already poured.
He glanced up when I appeared. His hair was slightly mussed, his shirt wrinkled like he'd slept in it. But his eyes were sharp. They went straight to my face, and his brow furrowed.
"You didn't sleep." It wasn't a question.
I tried for a casual shrug. "I slept a little."
Before I could react, he crossed to me, his hand lifting toward my forehead. Instinct kicked in—I stepped back, and his hand froze mid-air. For a second, we just stared at each other.
"Just checking if your temperature's normal," he said quietly, his voice rough.
"I'm fine now."
My brain kept flashing back to last night. The way his eyes had fallen on my exposed skin before he'd forced himself to look away. The memory made my cheeks flush hot all over again.
His jaw worked. He didn't believe me, but he didn't push. Instead, he dropped his hand and turned back to the counter, grabbing a mug. "Sit. Eat."
I obeyed, sinking into one of the bar stools. My fingers twisted together in my lap. The silence stretched, thick and uncomfortable, until he set a plate in front of me—toast, eggs, a small bowl of fruit—and slid the milk closer.
"Caleb—"
"Eat first." His tone left no room for argument.
I picked up my fork.
---
Halfway through breakfast, I couldn't take it anymore. The quiet. The tension. The way he kept glancing at me like he was trying to figure out what I was thinking.
"I need to go home," I blurted out.
His hand stilled, coffee mug halfway to his lips. Slowly, he set it down. "Okay."
"I mean—" I pushed a piece of toast around my plate. "I've been gone for two days. Two nights. My mom's probably... she's probably worried."
That was true. And despite everything—despite the slap, despite my father's cruelty—I couldn't just disappear. Not like this.
Caleb's expression didn't change. "You don't owe them an explanation."
"Maybe not," I admitted. "But I can't keep running away either." I took a shaky breath. "I need to talk to my father. About the blood pact. About Damon. If he won't let me refuse, then... then I'll move out. Lila said I could stay with her until I figure things out."
The words sounded braver than I felt.
Caleb studied me for a long moment. Then he nodded once, sharp and final. "I'll drive you."
"No." The refusal came out too quickly, and I saw his eyes narrow. "I mean—thank you, but I'll take a cab. It's easier."
"Afraid he'll see you with me?" His tone was almost casual, but there was an edge underneath. A bitterness. "Don't worry, Elena. I get it."
"Caleb—"
"It's fine. I'll call you a cab."
I wanted to explain. To tell him it wasn't about shame—it was about survival. About not giving my father more ammunition. But the words stuck in my throat, and he'd already turned away.
---
We finished breakfast in silence. I felt like I was choking on unspoken words, on guilt and frustration and something dangerously close to longing.
Then my backup phone buzzed. Lila's name flashed on the screen. I grabbed it, desperate for the distraction.
"Hey," I said, my voice a little too bright.
"Elena." Lila's tone was careful. Worried. "Are you okay?"
"Much better."
"Your mom came by yesterday. She was looking everywhere for you. She even went to campus. I ran into her at the gates." A pause. "Her eyes were red, Elena. She must be heartbroken."
My throat tightened. I gripped the phone harder, my knuckles going white. "What did you tell her?"
"I didn't tell her you were at Caleb's." Another pause. "But she's really worried. I know your family situation is... complicated. But she still cares about you, you know?"
I nodded, even though Lila couldn't see me. My vision blurred. "I know."
"Just... go talk to her, okay? Whatever's going on, you can work it out."
"Yeah," I whispered. "Thanks, Lila."
I hung up and set the phone down carefully. My hands were shaking. Caleb was watching me from across the counter, his expression unreadable.
"My mom's been looking for me," I said, my voice barely above a whisper. "She's... worried."
I blinked hard, trying to hold back the tears that were suddenly pressing at my eyes. Why did that hurt so much? Why did the idea of my mother caring feel like a knife twisting in my chest?
Because part of me had convinced myself no one would notice if I disappeared.
I wiped my eyes quickly and stood. I held out his backup phone. "Thank you for letting me use this."
Caleb took it. "Someone looking for you," he said quietly, "is a good thing."
I stared at him. There was something in his voice—something raw and aching—that made my chest hurt.
I realized he'd never had that. Not once. His mother had abandoned him. When Marcus ignored him, no one cared. When Isabella locked him in that tower, no one came. Even when he'd collapsed in the snow with a fever, burning up and barely conscious—no one had been looking for him.
Except me. And even then, I hadn't let him stay.
"Caleb," I started, my voice breaking. "I—"
"Don't." He shook his head, his expression carefully blank. "You're right. You should go home."
But I saw the flicker in his eyes. The old wound, still bleeding.
"Okay," I whispered.