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Like so many kids in Saints Cross, Elliot is a trust-fund baby. Set to follow in his father’s footsteps and become a successful businessman.
He might rule the halls at All Hallows’, but I can’t imagine him putting on a suit and playing chief executive of Eaton Enterprises.
After peeing, I wash my hands and tiptoe back into the bedroom. I have every intention of climbing back into bed, but my stomach starts grumbling loudly.
I don’t want to eat. I can’t bear the thought of it. But I need to eat. I know this.
As much as I know the sky is blue and the grass is green.
My eyes flick to the bedroom door and a deep sigh rolls through me.
Without overthinking it too much, I grab a hoodie off the back of Elliot’s door, pull it over my head and slip out of his room to go in search of something to eat.
* * *
I’ve always found the Chapel intimidating. For years, I heard the stories, the whispers and rumours. But it was nothing compared to the first time I came here with the girls, and realised every bit of what I’d been told was true.
The Heirs hold more power than a group of eighteen-year-olds ever should. But that’s how it’s always been in Saints Cross. Their names mean something. Money. Status. Clout.
The Heirs are untouchable.
But as I tiptoe downstairs, it isn’t the Chapel’s ominous décor that has my heart racing, it’s the Heir I know is somewhere inside.
“Abi?” The quiet desperation in his voice makes me freeze. Elliot sits in one of the wingback chairs, his dark and stormy gaze locked on my face. “What’s wrong?” he asks softly.
So softly it throws me for a loop.
“I—I’m hungry.”
“You are?” He stands. “I can make you?—”
“You don’t need to do that. I can get something.”
“Yeah, not going to happen, Red.” The corner of his mouth twitches. “You sit and I’ll make something. Pancakes?”
“Sounds good.”
The air turns heavy, something sticky snaking through me. Things are so awkward between us. But I don’t know how we got to now. Too much has happened.
“Come on.” He motions to the kitchen tucked at the back of the room. The Heirs have a private chef but since the girls moved in, he’s around less and less.
I follow, keeping a safe distance between us. If Elliot notices, he doesn’t say anything.
“Sit.” He pulls out a stool and I climb up. “Did you sleep well?”
The question surprises me given we both know I fell asleep wrapped in his arms.
“Fine.” I nod, barely meeting his stare.
Elliot’s gaze lingers but eventually he lets out a frustrated sigh and sets about gathering up all the ingredients he needs. I watch him from under my lashes as he adds flour, eggs, and milk to a bowl and beats the batter with a finesse that should surprise me.
But it doesn’t.
Because Elliot is a lot more than the cold, icy exterior he exudes.
“Are you looking forward to seeing the girls tomorrow?”
I lift a shoulder in a half-hearted shrug.
