The night stretched before her, restless and unyielding. Evelyn sat at the vanity, fingers tracing the silver brush's cool handle, her mind spiraling through the events of the day. She had expected a wedding, not a reckoning. And now, in the quiet hush of Everthorne Manor, reality pressed in.
She could not afford to slip.
With a steadying breath, she opened the small trunk Bastian had packed for her. Nestled within its depths was Eleanor's journal—her final lifeline. Evelyn skimmed through familiar passages, memorizing the handwriting, the rhythm of her predecessor's thoughts. A favorite perfume, a pet phrase, a childhood memory. Details that Nathaniel might test her on.
A knock at the door startled her. She snapped the journal shut, composing herself just as a maid entered, carrying a steaming basin.
"To freshen up before the night, Your Grace."
The girl's eyes darted toward her—too quickly, too aware. Evelyn thanked her softly, dismissing the unease curling in her stomach. The staff was watching her. Of course they were.
She rose, moving to the basin. The warm water soothed her fingers as she washed away the remnants of the day, but the mirror reflected more than just exhaustion. A woman wearing another's face.
As she undressed, she noted the nightgown laid out for her—soft, ivory lace, finer than anything she had ever worn. A bride's gown for a wedding night that might never come.
Still, she draped it over her shoulders and sat on the edge of the bed. Waiting.
Would Nathaniel come? Would he expect her to play the role in every sense?
The uncertainty gnawed at her. If he touched her, if he looked too closely, would he see the cracks beneath the porcelain?
The clock ticked on. Midnight neared.
Then, the sound of footsteps.
Slow. Measured. Stopping just outside her door.
Evelyn held her breath, her pulse hammering as she turned her head toward the entrance.
A pause.
A shadow beneath the door.
And then—nothing.
The footsteps retreated, fading into the depths of Everthorne's halls.
She let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding.
Nathaniel had not come.
She exhaled a breath of relief—too soon.
A sharp knock shattered the silence, quick and precise. Not tentative. Not hesitant.
Evelyn's fingers tightened around the silk of her nightgown.
The door swung open without permission.
Nathaniel stood at the doorway. His gaze found her at once, pinning her in place, and Evelyn felt it like a hand wrapping around her throat.
Slowly, he stepped inside. The door clicked shut behind him.
She should have stood. Should have drawn herself up. But her body betrayed her, sinking deeper into the edge of the bed, her fingers knotting into the delicate lace of her gown.
Nathaniel's lips curled into something that was not quite a smile.
"Waiting for me, Duchess?"
The title slithered from his mouth, deliberate and edged with something unreadable. He did not move toward her immediately, only tilted his head, watching her.
Like a wolf scenting an unfamiliar breed of prey.
Evelyn forced herself to breathe. "It's late."
"It is." He took another step. "Did you think I wouldn't come?"
Her pulse thundered against her ribs. His voice was lower now, softer—too soft.
Nathaniel was a storm contained within a man, his fury a quiet, smoldering thing. She had seen it in the way he carried himself, in the way his touch never lingered longer than necessary. And yet, here, now—this was different.
She had expected indifference. Distance. Instead, he prowled toward her with an intent that made the air between them thick, electric.
He stopped just before her, reaching out. His fingers traced the sheer sleeve of her nightgown, barely a touch, yet enough to send a shiver down her spine.
"A fine choice," he murmured, his knuckles ghosting down the fabric. "You always did like ivory."
Evelyn swallowed. She had not chosen it. But Eleanor would have.
"Of course," she whispered, forcing the words past her lips.
His fingers trailed lower, along the delicate lace at her wrist, before his hand closed around hers—firm, unyielding. Not painful. Not yet.
He lifted her hand, pressing it palm-down against his chest. Beneath the layers of his evening attire, she felt the steady thrum of his heartbeat. Slow. Controlled. Unlike hers.
His eyes, dark as the storm-torn sea, bore into her. Stripping her bare in a way the nightgown never could.
"You are trembling," he noted, voice velvet, deceptively gentle.
Evelyn forced herself still. "It's cold."
Nathaniel's thumb stroked over the back of her hand, absent, thoughtful. "Cold?"
A slow breath, drawn through his nose. As if savoring something unseen.
"Strange," he murmured. "It is not cold in this room."
Ice crawled through her veins.
Her breath hitched, her body locking as he leaned in, the scent of him—clove and smoke—folding around her. His lips hovered just above her throat. Close enough that she could feel the warmth of his breath against her skin.
"Tell me, wife." His voice was nothing but a whisper now, an intimate, lethal thing. A hunter whispering to his prey.
"Should I warm you?"
Evelyn's mind screamed at her to pull away, but she could not. To recoil was to confirm his suspicions. To yield was to invite something far more dangerous.
So she did what she must.
She exhaled softly and tilted her head—just slightly—offering her throat.
Nathaniel stilled.
A heartbeat. Then another.
The tension between them was suffocating.
And then—a chuckle. Low. Dark.
His fingers tightened, not enough to hurt, but enough to remind her that he held her there. That he was toying with her.
"So obedient," he mused. "Eleanor was never that."
He knows.
Not fully. Not yet. But enough.
Nathaniel's lips barely brushed her skin—a whisper of contact—before he pulled away entirely.
Releasing her hand.
Stepping back.
As if she had been the one who reached for him.
"I have no need for a wife in my bed," he said, his expression unreadable. "But tell me, Ev-Eleanor…"
The way he said her name sent a chill straight through her bones.
"Do you think you can keep pretending?"
He let the question linger, turning from her, walking toward the door.
She swallowed down the breath she had been holding. "I don't know what you mean."
Nathaniel paused at the threshold.
And then, without looking back—
"Liar."
The door shut behind him.
Evelyn shuddered.
She had fooled everyone.
Everyone but him.