Chapter Five — The Pulse Between Us

The first time Evelyn felt the echo, it was almost gentle.

A faint pressure under her ribs, a flicker that wasn’t hers—like someone had brushed a finger along the inside of her chest. Then it was gone.

She told herself it was exhaustion, or stress, or caffeine, but none of those things made her hand tremble when she poured her coffee. None of them explained why, every few minutes, her pulse stuttered out of sync—hers, then not hers.

She knew whose heartbeat it was.

Across the city, Lucien Valehart stood in his office with his palms braced against the table, every muscle tight. The reports from his security chief lay untouched beside him; the lines of text blurred whenever the rhythm under his skin shifted. It was subtle, but constant—like a whisper he couldn’t block out.

The bond had always been a hum. Now it was a voice.

He’d told himself it was controllable. That the wolf answered to him, not to her. But the truth was simpler, uglier. The mark wasn’t a leash. It was a link. And every time she felt something, so did he.

A knock broke the thought.

“Sir?”

Adrian’s reflection appeared in the glass door, tall, composed, eyes too sharp to be harmless.

“You look like hell,” he said.

Lucien didn’t turn. “You’re not wrong.”

Adrian walked in without waiting to be invited. “You’ve seen the footage then.”

“I have.”

“You know it was Helena.”

Lucien’s jaw flexed. “I know she had her reasons.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only one I have right now.”

Adrian leaned against the edge of the desk, folding his arms. “You think you can protect her?”

“No,” Lucien said. “But I can contain the fallout.”

“By keeping Evelyn in the dark?”

Lucien’s eyes finally lifted. “You think she’ll survive the truth?”

Adrian’s voice softened. “She’s stronger than you think.”

“I don’t want her strong,” Lucien said quietly. “I want her safe.”

“And that’s why she’ll never trust you.”

For a moment, the room held its breath. The rain had stopped outside, leaving only the sound of distant traffic.

Lucien said nothing. Adrian pushed off the desk, straightened his cuffs, and headed for the door.

“You keep pretending she’s a liability,” he said without turning back. “But I think you’re just afraid she’s your mirror.”

Evelyn didn’t make it to work. The walk from her building to the main street was enough to convince her she wasn’t imagining it. Every few steps, her breath caught—Lucien’s breath, his tension, bleeding through the mark.

By the time she reached the corner café, she was shaking. She ordered something she didn’t taste, sat by the window, and tried to steady her hands.

Her phone buzzed. Not Unknown Number this time—Maris.

Maris: Found something. You’ll want to see this.

Evelyn: Now?
Maris: Before it disappears again.

That was enough.

Ten minutes later, Evelyn was back in the archives, her hood still damp. The smell of paper and humidity pressed close.

Maris gestured her over. “I pulled the old shift logs. Someone deleted digital access, but they missed the handwritten register.”

She slid the open ledger across the desk. The pages were filled with neat signatures and timestamps. Halfway down the column—R. Draven.

Evelyn’s stomach turned. “R.D.”

Maris nodded. “And look at the department.”

Wolf Research Division.

Evelyn whispered, “So he worked for them.”

“Or was one of them,” Maris said. “Depends on who you ask.”

“Do you know what happened to him?”

Maris’s eyes flicked toward the door. “Vanished. Around the same time the Gray subject died.”

Evelyn exhaled slowly. “You think he’s still alive?”

Maris didn’t answer. “If you’re going to keep digging, do it fast. That kind of name still wakes up alarms.”

Evelyn closed the ledger and slipped her phone into her pocket. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” Maris said. “If R. Draven really existed, you’ll wish you hadn’t found him.”

That night, Evelyn dreamed.

At least, she thought it was a dream.

The air was silver—soft, suspended, glowing from nowhere. She stood in a corridor that looked familiar: marble, glass, faint echoes of her own footsteps.

At the far end, a man stood with his back to her. His shirt was torn; his shoulders rose and fell with ragged breaths. When he turned, she saw Lucien’s face—except it wasn’t.

The eyes were the same shade of silver, but older. Worn. Beneath the collar of his shirt, something burned—a mark, the same shape as hers, but cracked through the center.

She tried to speak, but her voice came out thin. “Who are you?”

He looked at her, expression fractured between anger and sorrow.
“Not who. When.”

Then the corridor caught fire.

She woke gasping, the scent of smoke still in her lungs, her skin slick with sweat. For a moment she didn’t know where she was. Then she heard it—another breath, layered under her own.

Lucien.

The connection flared, hot and wild, like the mark had been waiting for her to close her eyes.

She pressed her palm against her chest. “Stop.”

But it didn’t stop.

Across the city, Lucien shot upright in bed, heart pounding. For a split second, he saw what she saw—the fire, the cracked mark, the eyes that were almost his. His pulse collided with hers, rhythm breaking apart.

“Evelyn,” he whispered, and the bond pulsed in answer.

The next morning, she went straight to his office. No appointment, no warning. The guards barely had time to react before she was at his door.

Lucien looked up from his desk, startled. “You shouldn’t—”

“Say it,” she cut in. “I shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t ask questions. I shouldn’t exist. I’m tired of that sentence.”

He exhaled, slow and measured. “You look pale.”

“I saw him,” she said.

His brows furrowed. “Who?”

“R. Draven.”

Lucien went still. “That’s not possible.”

“Then explain why he had your face.”

He rose from his chair, crossing the space between them in two strides. “You’ve been dreaming.”

“It wasn’t a dream,” she said. “You were there.”

“I felt it,” he admitted quietly. “But that doesn’t make it real.”

“It was real enough.” Her voice cracked. “He said, ‘Not who. When.’”

Lucien’s hands tightened into fists. “Then someone’s using the mark.”

“What does that mean?”

He met her gaze, silver eyes darkening. “It means the mark isn’t just a bond. It’s a door.”

A tremor ran through her. “To what?”

“To what came before us.”

Their breathing synced for a moment—unintentional, involuntary. The tension between them was sharp enough to hum.

Lucien looked away first. “You shouldn’t have seen that.”

“Then stop hiding it,” she said.

He laughed once, low and humorless. “You think I can?”

The mark pulsed again, as if mocking them both.

Evelyn took a step back, shaking. “If this is a door, then someone’s already on the other side.”

Lucien’s jaw clenched. “Then we find who opened it.”

“And if it’s not someone?”

He didn’t answer.

The silence stretched between them until she said softly, “When I dream, I feel what you feel.”

He met her eyes again. “Then you know how hard I’m trying not to.”

Her throat went dry. “Not to what?”

Lucien’s voice was barely a whisper. “Not to want you.”

The mark burned in reply, a single pulse that hit like lightning under her skin.

Neither moved. The air between them was alive—breathing, waiting.

Then the door opened. Adrian stood there, surprise flickering just long enough to register before his expression hardened.

“Interrupting something?”

Lucien straightened. “We’re done.”

Evelyn didn’t argue. She brushed past Adrian without looking at him, but he caught the faint scent of smoke as she passed.

He turned to Lucien. “What the hell are you doing?”

Lucien didn’t look up. “Trying to control something that doesn’t want to be controlled.”

Adrian stared at him for a long moment. “That makes two of you.”

That night, Evelyn couldn’t sleep. The mark pulsed too steadily, like a metronome counting toward something inevitable.

She opened the folder again, tracing the name R. Draven with her finger. Below it, a half-faded note:

Subject exhibited secondary resonance. Suggest containment before phase two.

Her phone buzzed.
Unknown Number: Containment failed before. It will again.

Her fingers tightened. Who are you? she typed.

Unknown Number: Someone who remembers the last time the moon chose wrong.

The mark throbbed once—hard enough to steal her breath.

Outside, the clouds parted just enough for the moon to break through. The silver light spilled across her skin, and for a heartbeat she could almost hear another voice—low, distant, familiar.

Not who. When.