Nathaniel was so close she could feel the heat of him seeping into her skin.
"How often you would sit here," he murmured, "how you'd look at me with those soft eyes... as if you had no idea the power you held over me."
Evelyn's stomach twisted. Her mind screamed at her to move, to speak, to demand the truth—but she was caught in the gravity of him. He didn't see her. He never had. Not Evelyn. To him, she was Eleanor—his lost fiancée, his beautiful ghost.
His fingers grazed the side of her neck. The touch was maddeningly tender, achingly familiar, and it made her flush despite herself.
"You were always so soft here," he whispered, reverent. "So delicate. So perfect…"
Her breath hitched. The way he spoke her name—Eleanor—felt like a noose tightening around her throat. He was drowning in memory, dragging her under with him.
She clenched her fists in her lap, willing herself still. One false move, and the illusion he clung to might fracture—and with it, her only chance to control this game. She wasn't Eleanor. But she had to be.
His fingers moved again, tracing the curve of her jaw—slow, possessive. He knew this face too well. Knew every line of the woman he had once loved, and still mourned.
"Do you remember how I used to kiss you here?" he breathed, lips brushing just below her ear. The contact sent a ripple down her spine. "You'd shiver… just like this."
And she did. Her body betrayed her with a tremble, subtle but undeniable.
"You always said I was too possessive," he continued, voice thick with nostalgia—and something darker. "But how could I not be? You were mine. You still are."
Evelyn's chest ached. His words weren't love—they were obsession. Devotion, twisted into something unrecognizable. His fingers curled around the back of her neck, warm and steady. Controlling.
"My lord—" Her voice shook. She wanted to say it. To break the spell and scream that she wasn't Eleanor, that this was a mistake. But the truth would cost her everything. No—she had to stay in character. Stay in control.
He leaned closer, breath grazing her skin.
"You don't have to say anything," he whispered. "I know you remember. I can feel it."
The world shrank around her, the air thick with longing, grief, and madness. His hand cupped her face, tilting it upward—forcing her to meet eyes haunted by memory and poisoned with hope.
"You've forgotten me, haven't you?" he murmured. "Forgotten how much I loved you… how much I still love you."
Her heart thudded painfully. She couldn't breathe. Couldn't speak.
"I—I'm not…" she started—but stopped, biting the words back.
No. I can't break now. Not when he's this close to believing.
Nathaniel's lips curved into something dark and dangerous.
"What is it?" he asked softly, his thumb stroking her cheek.
Evelyn swallowed hard. His touch burned—an intoxicating blend of gentleness and obsession—and she stood on the edge of a blade. One misstep, and it was over.
But maybe… she could use it.
She met his gaze, lashes lowering just slightly, as if overwhelmed. Her hands rose, slow and deliberate, settling against the lapels of his coat. Beneath her palms, his heart thudded steady and strong.
Her voice, when it came, was a whisper. Hesitant. Enticing.
"Would it matter," she asked, "if I had forgotten… just a little?"
He stilled. His gaze sharpened, as if searching for a lie.
His grip on her jaw eased, but he didn't pull away. Couldn't. As if afraid she might vanish again.
Evelyn tilted her head, just enough to expose her throat—an offering, a phantom memory. Something he'd never let go of.
"Maybe… you could help me remember," she said softly. "If you loved me like you say you do… then show me."
A spark ignited in his eyes. The predator awakened.
Same tactic she used yesterday, Nathaniel thought dimly. But he didn't care.
"You want me to remind you?" he asked, voice rough. "Everything?"
She nodded. Barely.
"Start with the way you used to kiss me."
He didn't wait. His hand tangled in her hair, pulling her to him. His kiss wasn't soft—it was a claim, full of grief and hunger. As if kissing her would bring her back to life.
Let her play this game, he thought, as her mouth met his with fire. If this is how she wants it—then I'll give her everything. It's not like I'm not enjoying this.
And Evelyn gave in.
Not as herself. Not as Evelyn.
But as Eleanor.
Her hands glided over his chest, fingers trailing up to his jaw as she deepened the kiss. She tasted his pain, his longing, his madness—and she responded with a soft moan that made him shudder.
When he finally pulled back, breath ragged, eyes dark with hunger, she leaned close. Her lips brushed the shell of his ear.
"Show me everything you think I've forgotten, Nathaniel."
A low groan escaped him. His hands tightened at her waist, the last of his restraint snapping.
She's mad, he thought wildly. Mad… and mine.
Nathaniel lifted her effortlessly into his arms, cradling her like something precious—fragile, beloved, irreplaceable. Evelyn's breath hitched again, but she didn't protest. She couldn't. Not when the storm inside him was so close to consuming them both.
He carried her with single-minded purpose, past the flickering lanterns and into the grand corridor where shadows danced across high stone walls. She felt the tension thrumming beneath his calm—emotion held tight beneath strength and resolve.
He stopped before the heavy wooden door to his chambers.
Still holding her, he turned the handle and nudged it open with his foot.
The room beyond was dim, lit only by the embers of a dying hearth. The tall windows were closed, casting long strips of sunlight across the floor. The air was thick with the scent of aged books, tobacco, and something uniquely him. Evelyn's heart pounded as he crossed the space and set her gently on the edge of the bed—his bed.
Nathaniel didn't speak at first. He stood over her, eyes locked on her face as though she might vanish the moment he blinked. One hand brushed a stray lock of hair behind her ear, then lingered—fingers tracing the delicate line of her jaw.
"I used to dream of this," he said quietly. "Of you… here. As though death could be undone."
Evelyn met his gaze. "Then make me real again."
It was dangerous, the way she said it. Dangerous, because she was slipping too easily into the role—and he wanted it too badly.
He lowered himself beside her, the mattress dipping under his weight. One hand braced near her hip, the other came up to cup her cheek. His thumb ghosted across her lower lip.
"I used to worship you," he murmured. "And you let me. You let me drown in you, Eleanor."
Evelyn swallowed, caught in the intensity of his gaze. "Then drown again."
Something in him broke—quietly, beautifully. And the space between them vanished.
He kissed her again, slower this time, as though committing each second to memory. Her fingers found the buttons of his shirt, slipping them open one by one as his hands mapped her waist, her ribs, her back—each touch reverent, remembering.
Their breaths mingled, hot and uneven. His mouth traveled down her throat, tracing a path to her collarbone as he undid her dress—slow, deliberate, like unveiling something sacred. The fabric slipped from her shoulders and pooled at her waist, baring skin he once knew like scripture.
Evelyn trembled beneath his touch, every nerve alive, every breath tinged with danger. She wasn't supposed to feel this. Wasn't supposed to want it. But in the hush of his chambers, with Nathaniel looking at her like she was salvation itself, the lines between truth and deception blurred beyond recognition.
"You're still a vision," he whispered against her skin. "Still the only thing that ever made sense."
His lips found the swell of her breast, his hand steadying her back as he kissed her there—slow, aching. Evelyn arched into him, fingers weaving into his hair, holding him close even as everything inside her screamed don't.
She was losing control.
But wasn't that the point?
She needed him to believe she was Eleanor.
Nathaniel's hands were reverent, his mouth a poem written in heat and longing. Evelyn could barely breathe. Her mind screamed warnings, but her body had already betrayed her.
"Tell me you remember," he breathed, voice thick with emotion—regret, hope, madness.
She could lie. She had to lie.
"I remember," she whispered, brushing her lips against his ear.
Ah… Eleanor and I never shared a moment like this. She was too guarded, he thought.
A shudder ran through him, and he pressed his forehead to her shoulder. "Then don't leave me again."
Evelyn closed her eyes, throat tight.
He's not yours, she reminded herself. He loved someone who's gone.
But his body told a different story. It pressed her into silk sheets, his kisses trailing lower, his name falling from her lips like a confession.
Their bodies moved together, heat blooming where skin met skin. Nathaniel moved like a man starved.
Her dress slid the rest of the way down, leaving her bare beneath him. He stilled for a breathless moment, eyes dark with desire, then bent to press a kiss to her sternum… down to her stomach. Each kiss an offering. A prayer.
Evelyn gripped the sheets, her thighs parting instinctively. He paused there, breathing her in. His hands slid up her calves, over her knees, along the insides of her thighs—each touch deliberate, reverent.
"You're more beautiful now than any dream I ever had," he murmured, voice husky as his lips hovered just above her center.
She gasped as his tongue finally touched her—slow, sure, knowing. It was worship laced with hunger, pleasure edged with ache. Evelyn bit down on a moan, hips lifting in response.
He didn't rush. His tongue teased, retreated, circled—drawing her to the brink, then pulling her back again. Her hands tangled in his hair, anchoring herself to something real as her mind dissolved into the sensation of him.
"Nathaniel—" she cried, his name a plea.
That undid him.
He rose, kissing his way up her body until he hovered over her again—chest heaving, eyes burning.
"Say it again," he whispered.
"Nathaniel," she breathed.
And he entered her.
They stilled—her breath caught, his jaw clenched. The stretch, the heat, the unbearable rightness of it—
He began to move, slow and steady, as if afraid to break whatever spell bound them. Evelyn met his rhythm, hips rising to meet his. Their bodies found a rhythm, a language older than words. The bed creaked beneath them, sheets tangling, heat climbing higher.
Each kiss was a promise. Every thrust, a surrender.
And when Evelyn fell apart beneath him, crying out into the night, Nathaniel followed—her name, or Eleanor's, torn from his throat like prayer.
They collapsed together in silence, bodies slick with sweat, breath mingling.
Evelyn's heart thundered.
She should have felt victorious. She had him now—his trust, his passion, his vulnerability.
But as he curled around her and whispered, "Don't leave me again," something inside her cracked.
In the stillness, his head rested on her chest, breath evening out as though he'd finally found peace. His arm wrapped around her waist—protective, possessive.
Evelyn stared at the ceiling, her heart a battlefield of guilt and triumph.
She was Eleanor now.
But for how long could she keep pretending?
Nathaniel stirred and looked up at her. "Are you tired?"
She nodded faintly.
A slow smile curved his lips. "Really? Because I'm only just getting started."
Her eyes widened.
He wants more?! she thought, mind reeling.