"Why did Sir Bastian take her in?" Nathaniel muttered to himself, his mind working furiously. "There's no way he doesn't know she isn't Eleanor. Well, it could only mean one thing—revenge." His lips twisted into a grim smile, the weight of his words settling heavily in the room.
"Ahh...well then, let us proceed to the next step..." he said after a long pause, his voice cold, distant.
Locke straightened, sensing the shift in tone—like the coiling of a storm's eye.
"Yes, my lord," he said carefully, a touch of hesitation in his voice as he excused himself.
Nathaniel sat back slowly, his hands covering his face as his mind raced. The room felt suffocating, the heavy silence pressing against his chest. The fire crackled softly in the hearth, the only sound breaking the tension that had thickened with each passing moment.
And then, suddenly, Nathaniel let out a laugh—a laugh so hollow, it sent a chill down his spine. It started low, like a growl, before erupting into something more manic.
"I knew it," he whispered to himself, his eyes flashing with a mixture of disbelief and something darker. "I knew it. But then why does she look so much like Eleanor? It irks me—yet excites me." His laughter tapered off into silence, leaving only the sound of his uneven breathing in the dimly lit room.
He leaned back in his chair, staring at the portrait of his late fiancee that hung above the mantel. Eleanor's painted eyes seemed to follow him, her calm and graceful smile as haunting now as it had been in life. How many times had he stared into those eyes, searching for answers that never came? And now, here was Evelyn—an echo, a ghost in flesh—and yet... she was alive.
The resemblance was maddening. The resemblance was dangerous.
Nathaniel pressed his fingers to his temple, as if trying to force the thoughts out of his head. He had to focus. The game had changed, and Sir Bastian was playing it with deadly intent. But Evelyn... Evelyn was more than just a means to an end. She was a piece of something bigger, something Nathaniel couldn't quite grasp yet.
And the more he thought about her, the more the lines between revenge and something else blurred.
Evelyn arrived at the dining hall, her steps soft but sure. She paused at the threshold, her gaze flickering across the room before settling on Nathaniel.
He was already there—seated, as though he had been waiting.
The morning light filtered through the tall windows, casting a muted glow across the long table. A strange stillness hung in the air, as if the house itself held its breath.
She offered a polite bow of her head. "Good morning, Lord Nathaniel."
At the sound of her voice, he rose slowly to his feet. For a brief moment, his eyes searched her face—calm, unreadable, but with an intensity that made her spine stiffen.
Then, in a gesture both gentlemanly and loaded with silent tension, he stretched forth his hand.
Evelyn hesitated.
Just for a second.
Then, composed as ever, she stepped forward and placed her hand in his.
His grip was firm, his touch warm—and yet there was a coldness in his gaze that belied the civility of it all.
"My wife," he said, his voice velvet-wrapped steel. "I trust you slept well?"
"Well enough, my lord," she replied, her eyes lifting to meet his. "And yourself?"
A faint smile touched his lips—one that didn't reach his eyes. "I confess I didn't sleep at all."
He released her hand, gesturing for her to sit. She did, aware of his gaze lingering on her for a moment longer than necessary.
As the servants brought in breakfast, the clink of porcelain and the rustle of linen barely masked the tension curling in the space between them.
Nathaniel sat once more, elbows resting lightly on the table as he folded his hands. "Tell me, Eleanor... do you believe in fate?"
She blinked, caught off guard by the question. "Fate, my lord?"
"Yes," he said softly. "The idea that some people are drawn into each other's lives by something greater than coincidence."
Evelyn's lips parted, then closed again. She looked down at her plate, carefully choosing her next words.
"I believe," she said slowly, "that sometimes fate wears the mask of consequence."
Nathaniel let out a low chuckle. "Spoken like someone who has something to hide."
"And you, my lord?" she asked, lifting her eyes. "Do you believe in fate?"
He held her gaze.
"I believe in purpose."
And with that, they began to eat in silence.
---
The meal passed with an almost eerie quiet, broken only by the occasional soft clink of silverware and glass. Evelyn focused on her food, careful not to look up too often, though she could feel his gaze lingering on her—watching, measuring, like a predator waiting for the right moment to strike.
When the servants withdrew and they were left alone, Nathaniel leaned back in his chair, his wine untouched. His eyes were still on her, burning with something unreadable.
"You're not wearing the pendant," Nathaniel said suddenly, voice low and rich like aged wine.
Evelyn froze, her fingers tightening imperceptibly around her teacup. She lowered it slowly, masking the flicker of alarm in her chest. Pendant? She remembered Eleanor's journal—Eleanor never took it off. But Sir Bastian had never mentioned it, nor had she found it among her things.
"I—didn't think it appropriate for breakfast," she said, carefully even.
Silence stretched between them like a drawn bowstring.
Then he stood.
Her pulse jumped.
She didn't move, only followed him with her eyes as he rounded the long table—his steps quiet but resolute, like a man crossing into a battlefield he knew all too well. He came to stand behind her, and though he didn't touch her at first, his presence was suffocatingly close. The scent of him—clean spice, leather, and something darker—curled around her senses like smoke.
Evelyn sat rigid, every nerve thrumming like plucked string. Her breath hitched the moment his hand touched her neck.
Not rough.
Not hurried.
It was the barest graze of fingers, as if he were reacquainting himself with a memory long denied. His thumb ghosted over the hollow of her throat, and her lips parted on instinct. He pressed slightly—never enough to hurt, only to remind her he was there. Present. Inescapable.
"I had it made for you," he murmured, his voice brushing against her ear like silk. "The pendant. A wedding gift. The chain was delicate… just like your collarbones."
She swallowed, hard. "I didn't realize..."
"Of course not," he murmured. "You've forgotten so much."
His fingers moved again—tracing the curve of her neck, then up, just barely brushing her jawline. A shiver danced down her spine. Her hands remained folded neatly on her lap, but every part of her felt bare, exposed beneath his scrutiny.
"You've changed," he whispered, his breath teasing her skin. "Your voice is different. Softer. But your skin…" His knuckles grazed her cheek. "Your skin still flushes the same way when I touch you."
She exhaled shakily, unable to look up.
He didn't stop. A lock of hair had fallen near her cheek, and he gently, almost reverently, tucked it behind her ear—his fingers lingering longer than necessary. The intimacy of it made her feel dizzy.
"Still," he said, softer now, his lips so close to her ear it was almost indecent, "you're more beautiful than I remember. Time, it seems, has only sharpened the ache."
Evelyn couldn't take it anymore.
She stood abruptly, the legs of her chair scraping the floor like a cry for air.
"My lord—"
Nathaniel stepped back smoothly, the air between them severed like a snapped thread. But his expression gave nothing away—only that ghost of a smirk, the kind that left bruises on a soul.
"My apologies," he said, voice once again cool and composed. "I was overcome by... nostalgia."
Her heart thundered against her ribs.
Not nostalgia.
Possession.
Or something worse.
And something… terribly magnetic.
Nathaniel's smirk softened into something more reminiscent of longing, yet there was a predatory edge lurking in the depths of his gaze. His eyes never left Evelyn as he slowly stepped closer, the distance between them diminishing with each measured stride.
Evelyn instinctively stiffened, but before she could even think to step back, his hand was on her wrist, pulling her gently but firmly toward him. His touch was deceptively tender, the warmth of his fingers sending an involuntary shiver through her.
"You've been keeping your distance," he murmured, his voice low and laced with something darker, a mix of affection and something that chilled her to the bone. "I always knew you were difficult to read, Eleanor. Even now, your eyes—those same eyes…"
Evelyn's breath caught in her throat, and her pulse quickened. She didn't know how to respond to the strange way he was looking at her, as if she were someone else entirely.
"My lord, I—"
But he was already guiding her back, his hand now at the small of her back, urging her toward the long dining table. She couldn't stop herself from stumbling slightly as her legs hit the edge, and in a single, fluid movement, Nathaniel lifted her—his hands strong and sure—and placed her gently onto the polished surface of the table.
She froze, her heart hammering in her chest. His touch was strangely familiar, as if she were the Eleanor he had once known, and it unsettled her more than anything. He stepped between her legs, positioning himself with an intimacy that felt far too personal, far too dangerous.
"You remember this, don't you?" he asked softly, almost wistfully, his breath brushing against her cheek.