Romans & histoires Elena In Fifty Shades Of Grey

Elena continued, her cold eyes sweeping across the room, "has not yet been identified. But we have reason to believe that they are still within these walls." Her eyes stopped. On me. The room went silent. I felt the weight of a thousand stares boring into my skin. My heart slammed against my ribs. My wolf stirred, growling deep in my chest. Elena smiled—a thin, predatory curl of her lips. She stepped down from the dais, her heels clicking against the marble floor. She walked through the crowd like a shark parting water, her violet gown trailing behind her. She stopped directly in front of me. "You must be Mira," she said softly, her silver eyes raking over my bruised face, my torn uniform, m

Every muscle ached deliciously. With a muffled grunt, she shoved Ryan from atop her, the weight of him groaning in protest. “Ugh… Ryan… stop… or ugh!” she murmured, fumbling blindly toward the floor. Elena picked it up, eyelids half-shut. She didn’t bother to look at the caller ID, just swiped to answer and brought it to her ear, collapsing back onto the pillows with her eyes still firmly shut. “H’lo?” she croaked.

Or maybe someone. “Elena,” I called, my voice low but firm. “We need answers.” Behind me, I heard the soft shuffle of Elena Grey’s bare feet against the wooden floor. She moved slowly, as if weighed down by the gravity of what she had to say. I turned to face her, watching as she approached the small altar at the center of the room. The firelight cast eerie shadows across her face, making her look older than she was. She was an enigmatic woman, Elena. A mystic with deep ties to our world, to the ancient powers that governed the supernatural. I trusted her judgment, her visions, but sometimes… sometimes her words were difficult to accept.

His gray eyes were fixed on the interface in front of him, his jaw set in a hard line that meant business. Elena sat on his lap, her legs over his thighs, her head on his broad shoulder. She wore a charcoal-grey cashmere knit instead of her silk dress and her long fingers were tracing the scars on his left hand. After the long flight her dark eyes were wide awake with a cold clear look that made her the most deadly strategist in the Vane empire.

Elena stood near the screen. Studying faces. Looking for something. Though she wasn't entirely sure what. Minutes passed. Then something caught her attention. A face. Familiar. Not because she knew the person well. Because she had seen them before. Somewhere. In another context. Another chapter of this story. Her pulse quickened. She stepped closer. The room fell silent. "Elena?" Lucian's voice sounded distant. She barely heard him. Because standing near the edge of the photograph was Evelyn Cross.

I said it was a bit awkward. “The pleasure is all mine,” he said, taking my hand as he placed a kiss on my knuckles, “I must say, you both look so alike, even your eyes.” James said with a smile, he looked like a nice guy. “Oh Elena's eyes aren't blue, they're actually hazel. She has contact on for some personal reasons but she can take it off so you can see her beautiful eyes, right Elena?” Elara said clearly excited as she went to stand beside James who held her on her waist.

She tries to lean her head on my shoulder, but I shift my weight, subtly pushing her off. "I’m here to do a job, Annabel. Stay close, look pretty, and don't ask for a second date," I mutter. My eyes are already scanning the ballroom, ignoring the flashes of the paparazzi and the forced smiles of the city’s power players. I lift my eyes off my phone, scanning the crowd near the center stage, and that’s when I see her. Elena is standing near a marble pillar, clad in a floor-length black dress that hugs every curve of her figure like a second skin. It’s elegant, understated, and absolutely lethal. I feel a familiar, violent thud in my chest. Across the distance, our eyes lock.

The penthouse fell silent except for the low hum of the city thirty floors below. Matteo stepped up beside me, lighting a cigarette with fingers that never shook. “He’s going to try something at the wedding.” “I know.” “He wants blood.” “Then we will let him bleed first.” I took the stairs two at a time, loosening my tie as I went. The bedroom door was cracked open; warm light spilled into the hallway. I pushed it wider and stopped. Elena sat on the edge of her bed in nothing but one of my white dress shirts she’d taken from my closet, the sleeves rolled to her elbows, and the hem brushing mid-thigh. Her hair was still damp from the shower, curling against her collarbones.

“Breathe.” Elena sent her Mate a hopeful smile, and the astonishment on his face melted back into ease. Elena wore a light gold dress, light enough to melt into her alabaster skin. Her long white hair was down, with two braids wrapping around her crown. A diadem wrapped around her forehead with a single Moonstone in the center. Instead of flowers, she carried her daughter in her arms.

--- Back to Nick Three days later, another ghost walks in. This one hides it better. Elena Moretti — money launderer, syndicate accountant, survivor. She smiles when she sees Rafe, but there’s calculation behind it. She sits. Orders tea. Studies him like she’s solving a puzzle. I don’t leave my seat. She doesn’t look at me directly — which tells me she knows exactly who I am. When Rafe steps away, she finally speaks. “He looks good,” she says lightly. “He’s alive,” I answer.