The room was quiet.
Heavy curtains muted the daylight, casting Nathaniel's chamber in a soft, golden gloom. The bed beneath her was far too warm, the sheets far too fine. Evelyn stirred, her lashes fluttering open slowly, breath shallow as the heaviness in her limbs began to recede. Her mind felt like molasses.
Where was she?
The smell of leather and sandalwood filled her nose. The ticking of a distant clock counted the seconds steadily, calmly, as if time were not something she ought to fear.
And then she heard his voice.
Low, measured, almost bored. Nathaniel.
She blinked again, harder this time, as the haze in her vision began to clear. She was in his chamber. His bed. The one she had come to know too well over the past two weeks. Her body ached—not just from the fall, but from the continued, unrelenting demands he placed on her, night after night. Demands she no longer resisted. Not truly.
Beyond the partially open door, she could make out the murmur of another voice—a man, older, careful in tone.
"…her pulse was shallow," the doctor was saying. "She's physically healthy, though fatigued. Frankly, Lord Carlisle, I suspect exhaustion."
A pause. Then Nathaniel, quiet, but firm:
"Elaborate."
The doctor cleared his throat, evidently uncomfortable. "Your wife is young. Her constitution is strong, but she requires rest. Intimate relations, if too frequent or… too intense, can wear on a woman's strength, particularly if—"
"I am well aware of my wife's age and fragility," Nathaniel interrupted coolly. "I expect a solution. I don't intend to see her in that state again."
There was silence. Evelyn's fingers curled into the sheets.
Wife.
He'd said it so effortlessly. As if the truth of it bore no weight. As if she hadn't spent the last two weeks unraveling beneath him.
She turned her face into the pillow, trying to banish the heat rising to her cheeks. Shame. Confusion. A strange, aching grief she could not name. She had allowed this—allowed him. And now her body was beginning to rebel against it.
"Let her rest for a few days," the doctor said at last. "No riding, no… exertions. A bland diet. She will recover."
Evelyn heard the rustle of papers, a chair scraping. Footsteps. The murmur of parting words.
Then the soft click of the door.
She lay still, pretending to sleep as she heard Nathaniel approach. The quiet sound of his boots across the carpet. He paused beside the bed, his presence a weight even before he touched her.
And then—his hand, brushing her cheek, lingering at her temple. Gentle. Too gentle.
"It seems I won't get to devour you in the next few days," he murmured, almost to himself.
His thumb traced the curve of her cheek with a touch so soft, it almost didn't belong to him. Evelyn's breath caught, but she didn't move. She didn't dare. If she did, she wasn't sure what her body might betray.
"You look fragile like this," he said quietly, almost fondly. "Like something breakable. Almost makes me wonder if I've been too greedy."
He stopped and turned to leave the chamber but not before pausing at the foot of the bed.
Evelyn could feel his eyes on her—cool, assessing, like a man appraising something he already owned. She hated that part of her thrilled under the weight of it. Hated even more that he never seemed to question her compliance. As if surrender had always been inevitable.
"I'll have Clara tend to you," Nathaniel said, his tone distant again, slipping back into the polished coldness he wore like armor. "You'll rest. Eat. Breathe."
And then what? When I'm strong again? When he comes back to take more?
Then he was gone, the door shutting behind him with a dull finality.
Only once she was alone did Evelyn exhale.
She pressed her palm to her belly, to the phantom ache of exhaustion that pulsed deep in her bones. Not just physical. Not just weariness. Something else had taken root in her—the echo of herself unraveling.
Her eyes burned, but no tears came. Tears required clarity. This… this was something murkier. Loneliness, perhaps. Or the beginning of forgetting what freedom once felt like.
She turned her face toward the wall and closed her eyes.
But even in the quiet, she could still feel him.
Still hear his voice.
Wife. A word like a collar.
Tightened each time he said it.
Evelyn placed her hand on her neck and mumbled, "What have I done?"
The question drifted like fog in her mind, without an answer.
---
The next morning arrived muted and grey.
Rain tapped gently against the windowpanes, a soft percussion that lulled the house into silence. Somewhere beyond the heavy curtains, the world moved on—unaware, uncaring. But in Nathaniel's chamber, time felt suspended.
Evelyn lay still beneath the weight of the covers, staring at the canopy overhead. Sleep had come in pieces, fractured and thin, offering little in the way of comfort. She was awake, but her limbs refused motion—as if her body still remembered the price of surrender.
Clara entered without knocking.
The maid moved quietly, carrying a silver tray. Porridge, toast, and tea, the scent of chamomile faint beneath the stronger smell of starch and soap. She didn't meet Evelyn's eyes, but her movements were brisk, almost gentle.
"My lady," she said softly, setting the tray on the side table. "Lord Carlisle asked that you eat."
Evelyn didn't answer.
Clara hesitated, smoothing her apron with one hand. "He… also asked that I stay until you've finished. To ensure it."
Of course he did. Control, even in kindness.
Evelyn pushed herself upright slowly, her body protesting. She picked up the spoon, but paused halfway to her mouth. "Clara," she said, her voice hoarse, "do you think I'm his wife?"
Clara froze.
"I…" The maid looked down. "That is what he calls you, my lady."
Evelyn gave a dry, humorless laugh. "That isn't what I asked."
Silence stretched between them, taut and fragile.
Finally, Clara said quietly, "It is not for me to say."
It never was.
Evelyn took a bite of the porridge, not because she wanted to, but because she knew Nathaniel would ask. The food was warm, bland, forgettable. She chewed slowly, swallowing down more than just breakfast.
Shame tasted like this, too. Quiet. Consuming.
Outside, the rain kept falling.
---
A soft knock, followed by the click of the door opening. Clara stood quickly, dipping into a quiet curtsy as Nathaniel entered.
"Leave us," he said, not sparing her a glance.
Clara obeyed without a word, her steps light and quick as she slipped from the room. The door shut behind her with a sound far too final.
Nathaniel stood by the hearth, still dressed in black—immaculate, as always. His coat was damp from the rain, his dark hair slightly tousled, the only sign he'd braved the outside at all. He didn't look at her at first. Only stared into the fire, his hands clasped behind his back.
"You're awake," he said.
Evelyn set the spoon down. "Yes."
A long silence stretched between them. Then, he turned.
His eyes, dark and sharp, swept over her like a blade. "You look pale."
"I feel fine," she replied. A lie, but not one she cared to correct.
He approached slowly, his movements unhurried, controlled—like a man with no need to rush. She stiffened as he reached her side, his hand lifting to brush a strand of hair from her face.
"Don't do that," he murmured.
"Do what?"
"Flinch."
"I didn't—"
"You did." His thumb lingered on her cheek. "You always do, when I'm gentle."
She turned her face away. "Maybe because it's not who you are."
He laughed—quiet, low. Cold. "Oh, Eleanor," he said softly. "You always insist on pretending."
Her breath caught. The way he said her name—it sounded wrong. Familiar, but warped. Like he was trying to mold her into something else.
Or someone.
"You wouldn't have looked away."
The words hit like a slap.
Her chest tightened. She blinked slowly, not trusting her voice.
"I'm not her," she whispered.
Nathaniel tilted his head, studying her like a painting he couldn't decide whether to preserve or destroy. "What did you say?"
She drew in a shaky breath. "You say I'm your wife."
"You are."
"Do you believe that?"
He didn't answer right away. Instead, he leaned in, his hand sliding behind her neck, cradling it. His grip was not painful—but firm. Possessive.
"I believe in what I choose to keep," he said finally. "And I've kept you, haven't I?"
Her pulse skittered. The heat of his body, the velvet chill of his voice—it undid her too easily. She hated the flutter it stirred in her stomach. Hated that her traitorous heart still beat faster when he touched her like this.
"Nathaniel," she breathed.
He kissed her then—softly, almost reverently. Not like a man in love, but like a man laying claim.
When he pulled back, his eyes burned into hers.
"You'll rest today. Tomorrow, perhaps I'll take you riding."
Her heart twisted. He saw her. But not really. Not completely.
And yet, God help her—she still wanted him to look again. To see her.
Evelyn closed her eyes. She wasn't sure if it was surrender or survival anymore.