Chapter Eleven — The Second Night

She woke before the scream this time.

The moon was high, a blade suspended over the city. Her lungs filled not with smoke, but with the soft chill of night air. For one long, terrible second, Evelyn thought the fire had been a dream—until she looked down and saw the faint silver line on her wrist where the cuff had once been. It shimmered, then vanished, like breath on glass.

The same room.

The same bed.

The same dress—white silk, backless, untouched.

Her heart stumbled once.

It couldn’t be real.

But when she stood, her bare feet sank into the same velvet carpet she had walked across before—the night she’d been sent to him as a pawn, drugged, obedient, unaware of the beast she was walking toward.

A clock ticked softly on the mantel.

11:37.

The night before the mark.

Her pulse steadied, her mind racing ahead of it. She was back—before the scandal, before the fire, before the moon turned red.

She remembered dying in Lucien’s arms.

She remembered the scent of burning vows and Helena’s final words: “You were never meant to bear the mark.”

Now she was here again, with the chance to make every wrong choice in reverse.

The mirror above the vanity gleamed faintly. Her reflection stared back—too calm, too knowing. Her hair fell in loose waves, the same style the maids had given her earlier that night. But her eyes were different. Sharper. Older.

“Breathe,” she whispered to herself. “It’s real enough.”

Outside, the city glittered beneath a thin mist. Somewhere far below, the Valehart estate pulsed with life—music, laughter, the pretense of celebration. The engagement banquet that had once sealed her fate was happening right now.

In that life, she had been the offering.

In this one, she would be the flame.

A soft knock broke the silence.

“Miss Cross?” The maid’s voice trembled slightly. “Madam Helena requests your presence downstairs.”

Helena. The sound of that name almost made Evelyn smile.
Not this time, she thought. You won’t lead me to slaughter again.

“Tell her I’ll be down shortly,” she said evenly.

Her voice carried a steadiness that made the maid hesitate before retreating.

When the door closed, Evelyn crossed to the wardrobe. The dress inside was the same one Helena had chosen—a gown of pale gold, modest by design, meant to make her look harmless. She touched the fabric and felt a ghost of disgust. Then she pushed it aside and reached for the darker one behind it—a forgotten silk sheath of midnight blue.

She slipped it on.

The color clung to her skin like intent. It caught the moonlight and turned it dangerous.

When she looked in the mirror again, the girl was gone.

The Valehart ballroom glittered as before: chandeliers dripping with crystal, violins playing a song written to sound effortless. Politicians, socialites, and creatures who looked human but weren’t all mingled with glasses in hand. The family crest—silver wolf against a black field—hung above the grand staircase, gleaming like an omen.

Evelyn stepped through the doors, and conversations stilled for a heartbeat.

She could feel eyes turning toward her—men curious, women calculating. Helena stood near the dais, dressed in white, her poise carved from generations of control. Lucien was at her side, tall, precise, distant. His dark suit framed him like armor, and even from across the room, she could sense the faint hum beneath his skin. The mark that had once burned her now lay dormant, waiting for the same spark.

Their eyes met.

A jolt shot through her chest—not pain, not fear, but memory.

In the last life, this was where he’d first looked at her with disgust.

Now, he looked at her as if trying to place a dream.

Helena’s smile didn’t waver. “Miss Cross. You’re late.”

“Forgive me,” Evelyn said, bowing her head just enough to be polite. “I was choosing the right color.”

Helena’s gaze flicked over the dark dress. “It’s bold.”

“Boldness suits the occasion,” Evelyn said softly. “Doesn’t it, Mrs. Valehart?”

The older woman’s eyes narrowed, almost imperceptibly.

Helena Valehart did not like surprises.

Lucien’s voice broke the tension. “Mother, if you’re finished assessing wardrobes—”

“Lucien,” Helena interrupted smoothly, “our guest is speaking.”

“I’m not a guest,” Evelyn said, her tone mild. “At least, not yet.”

A ripple passed through the crowd—curiosity scented like blood. Helena turned back to the onlookers with the ease of a queen. “You all know the announcement tonight concerns my son’s future. I see no need for suspense.”

Her hand brushed Lucien’s arm. The gesture was possessive, practiced. “The Valehart heir will take a wife.”

Applause followed, polite and hollow.

Evelyn felt the sound like static under her skin.

Helena gestured toward her. “Evelyn Cross—an alliance chosen for stability and discretion.”

Lucien’s jaw tightened. In the last life, he had stayed silent, jaw set, eyes cold.

This time, Evelyn decided to change the script.

She stepped forward, her heels clicking against marble.

The crowd parted.

“Mrs. Valehart,” she said clearly. “Before you announce your heir’s future, perhaps he should speak for himself.”

A sharp hush fell.

Helena’s expression froze—elegant surprise barely covering offense.

Lucien looked at Evelyn, startled. The moonlight caught in his eyes, turning them silver for an instant. “Miss Cross—”

“Do you want this union?” Evelyn asked, cutting him off gently. “Say it here. To them. To me.”

It was suicide, socially. In the old life, she would never have dared.

But she was no longer afraid of burning.

Lucien’s throat worked once. “This isn’t the place.”

“Then there’s no place,” she said softly. “Because if a bond begins in silence, it ends in fire.”

His pupils contracted. For a second—just one—his mask slipped. He looked at her not with contempt, but with recognition. A flicker of something that might have been déjà vu.

Helena’s tone was frost. “Miss Cross, you forget yourself.”

“No,” Evelyn said. “For the first time, I remember.”

And then she turned away—not running, not shamed, but deliberate.

Every eye followed her as she walked out beneath the chandeliers, leaving the Valeharts to their polite applause that didn’t quite start again.

Outside, the night was quiet.

The moon hung low above the garden, its light sharp enough to cut.

Evelyn inhaled deeply, the scent of night blooming jasmine replacing smoke. She closed her eyes.

You burned once for them, she thought. Now make them burn for you.

Behind her, footsteps approached. The sound she would recognize anywhere.

Lucien.

He didn’t speak at first. He stopped a few paces away, hands in his pockets, the picture of control. But his heartbeat—she could feel it through the thin veil that still linked them. It was faster than his calm face allowed.

“You enjoy provoking her,” he said quietly.

“She deserves worse.”

“She’s my mother.”

“She’s your jailer.”

His eyes flicked to her, sharp. “You think you know what this family is?”

“I died learning it,” she said before she could stop herself.

He froze. “What?”

The air between them tensed, every sound of the night fading away.

She smiled faintly, covering the slip. “I meant—I learned fast.”

Lucien studied her for a long moment, searching for something he couldn’t name. “You’re not what I expected.”

“No,” she agreed. “And you’re not what I feared.”

He almost smiled. Almost. “You should be.”

“Maybe,” she said, stepping closer. The moonlight caught her face, pale and calm. “But I’m not.”

The mark stirred faintly under her skin, a pulse remembering a wound.

Lucien’s breath hitched. He stepped back, as if distance could undo gravity. “Go inside,” he said roughly. “Before someone sees.”

“Afraid they’ll think you care?”

“I don’t.”

Her smile was slow, deliberate. “You will.”

Then she brushed past him, close enough for the air to shift, the bond whispering against his heartbeat.

That night, in his study, Lucien poured a drink he didn’t touch.

The image of her eyes—cool, knowing, impossibly steady—refused to fade.

When he finally looked down at his hand, he saw it:

a faint shimmer on his wrist, the mark he had sworn would never return.

And somewhere in the dark, under the same moon,

Evelyn touched her own wrist and whispered,

“Round two.”