Chapter 2

Elena

“Elena? Elena! Wake up!”

The voice that called to me was familiar, and the sound of it made me certain I was dead. So there was an afterlife, it seemed, because my dear friend was calling to me.

But as I cracked my eyes open, I didn’t find myself floating on a cloud or frolicking through a forest, but rather lying on my bedroom floor. And my friend was hovering over me with a concerned look on her face.

“Elena—”

“Maeve.” I jolted upright and grabbed my friend by the arms. “Maeve, are we… Are we alive?”

My friend blinked her green eyes once, twice, three times. Then, slowly: “Honey, did you hit your head when you fainted?” She gently took my head in her hands and turned it this way and that, inspecting me for injury.

I shook my head and looked around, taking it all in. My bedroom—I was back in my bedroom at home. The four-poster bed with the dark blue velvet canopy still dominated the center of the space, my clothes still spilled out of drawers, my music box still on the vanity…

And Maeve. My dear, sweet maid who I thought would meet me in the afterlife, if there even was one.

I recalled, bitterly, how Natalie had killed her—run her right through with a sword when Maeve tried to stand up for me. She claimed Maeve had helped me commit the crime I hadn’t committed.

But now…

Was it possible? Had I been reborn, like Natalie?

But… No. Maeve was still looking at me with confusion, which meant that she hadn’t been reborn, but rather…

“Maeve,” I said slowly, “what day is it?”

Her eyebrows shot up. “You really did hit your head, didn’t you?”

“Just… Humor me,” I insisted, gripping her hands. Goddess, her hands were so warm and familiar and alive. I wanted to leap for joy, except my body was aching from what had to have been a nasty fall.

Maeve stared at me for a moment, then replied carefully, “It’s May fifth. The third anniversary of Natalie’s death. You were supposed to go to—”

“To the gravesite,” I finished for her, my eyes widening.

So somehow, I had woken up two years before Killian rejected me and killed me.

Two years before Natalie’s rebirth. Two years before Maeve’s death. Two years before my baby died.

Only, my baby had never existed yet. But that didn’t matter right now—what mattered was that I was somehow still alive, and so was Maeve, and—

“Elena, you look really pale. Come, let’s get you seated somewhere more comfortable.”

Before I could protest, Maeve helped me to my feet and led me over to the bed. As we passed by the full-length mirror, I noticed my matronly black dress, my white hair neatly pulled back into a neat bun, the dark circles ringing my reddish eyes.

Goddess, did I really look so washed out and miserable even back then? My clothes looked too big for my body, my already pale skin somehow paler and my face more sallow. With my unique Albino features—having come from my mother, I assumed, although I never knew who she was—I should have looked proud and ethereal, not downtrodden and exhausted.

But then again, the clothes that he bought for me were always more suited for her. For Natalie. As if he wanted me to morph into her somehow.

While Maeve busied herself with preparing a cup of tea for me at the table in the corner, I looked down at my hands and considered everything I had just been through.

It couldn’t have all been a dream. I recalled the events of the past two years far too clearly. No, this was real. Everything that had happened was real, and for some reason, I was given another chance.

Which meant that I had to follow through with my final decision. I could never let myself fall for Killian again, no matter how badly my heart wanted it. I would no longer be the meek, obedient little wife who lived to please him.

I had to get myself and Maeve out of here. And soon, before Natalie would return and accuse us of conspiring to kill her.

Suddenly, the door swung open. I jumped, but Maeve just turned and bowed her head respectfully to Killian, who stood in the doorway in his all-black suit.

“Sir,” she said, curtsying slightly, “I’m glad you came. Lady Elena fainted. I think she might have hit her head.”

Killian’s eyes snapped to me, and he crossed the room in three strides on those long legs of his. “What happened, Elena?” His cold voice held the smallest hint of concern. Once, I would have taken that concern as a cue that he was finally starting to love me, and I would have held onto it like it was the most important thing in the universe, desperate for another drop of his affection.

Not anymore.

“Low blood sugar,” I replied tersely.

“Let’s get you to the doctor, just to be safe.”

“No.” I ignored his outstretched hand and folded my arms. “I’m fine, but I think I’ll skip the memorial service today.”

Killian frowned and tilted his head, his dark brown hair bobbing with the movement. He looked displeased, like he was about to scold me for skipping such an important ceremony—hardly befitting of the good Luna he expected me to be, the sort of Luna I died trying to be.

But I didn’t care anymore. Perhaps in my past life, I was starved for love and desperate to please my adoptive parents and Killian, and look how that turned out—in blood and pain.

I had been given another chance, and although I didn’t know how or why, I knew one thing: I could not repeat my past mistakes.

Killian finally sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Elena…”

“Maeve,” I said abruptly, shooting to my feet, “bring my tea to the sunroom, please. I’d rather have it there. It’s…” I wrinkled my nose and leveled Killian with a hateful stare. “...Stuffy in here.”

Before Killian could so much as open his mouth to retort, I brushed past him and out the door, down the corridor toward the sunroom.

Indeed, the house was exactly the same as it was two years ago, and as it had likely always been: cold, rarely a fire burning in any fireplace, the curtains shut, dusty old portraits lining the walls.

As I made my way to the one room in the house with sunlight, I passed by a portrait of Natalie hanging by the parlor; just a small one that Killian had painted before her death, and I had never asked him to take it down even though it felt insulting to have another woman’s picture hanging in the house that I was supposed to be the lady of.

In a fit of indignation, I “bumped” the portrait, knocking it right off the wall as I passed.

“Oops.”

A gasp behind me told me that Killian had seen that and knew it wasn’t an accident. I turned slowly to find him watching me from down the hall, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. I lifted my chin, silently willing him to reject me or even strangle me like he did before.

But he didn’t. He just picked it up, glared at me broodily for a moment, then stormed off, muttering something under his breath about women.

Maeve, who had watched the whole exchange, hurried up to me once he was gone. “Elena, are you sure you’re alright?” she whispered. “That’s so unlike you—if there’s anything wrong, you know you can tell me.”

Standing here now, when I thought I was dead, looking into my best friend’s eyes when I had only just seen the light fade from them, was too much. And with Killian gone and the shock wearing off, all I felt was relieved and horrified and… strangely hopeful.

I wanted to cry, but I didn’t. Instead, I pulled my friend close and inhaled her sweet scent. I had a chance to protect her now. Both of us.

“I’m fine, Maeve,” I murmured into her curly red hair. “I’ve just… figured things out, that’s all.”

Maeve patted my back awkwardly, confused and likely thinking I was just having an episode after my fainting spell.

But I really was going to divorce Killian.