Evelyne smiled faintly, masking her irritation. “Don’t let me keep you, Mr. Stonebridge. I’m sure Miss Evermere will be a most entertaining partner.”
Alaric hesitated, his gaze lingering on Evelyne. “This isn’t over,” he muttered before allowing Callista to whisk him away.
The evening unfolded in a symphony of music and dancing, with merriment rippling through the ballroom. Evelyne even caught her sister laughing with Alaric, the joy of being part of the courting season again shining through. However, the magic of the ball had faded for Evelyne. The dazzling chandeliers and elegant gowns no longer held their attraction as exhaustion crept in. While she had danced and dutifully met her mother’s expectations with forced smiles and polite conversation, all she yearned for now was the quiet solace of her bedchamber. The pins digging into her scalp and the constriction of her gown felt less like beauty and more like a burden she was desperate to shed.
She had endured the expected courtesies, exchanging pleasantries with noble lords and ladies and even partaking in a second dance with Wesley—mainly as a shield against Ivan, who had been watching her with wine-fueled boldness all evening. Each time she felt his gaze linger, she braced herself, knowing another tedious attempt at conversation was imminent. The wine had loosened his restraint, and she knew he’d come close to mustering the courage to approach again.
When Evelyne spotted her mother deep in an animated discussion with a group of matriarchs, she seized the opportunity to slip away, grabbing a flute of champagne on her way out. The night chill greeted her as she stepped into the stillness of the manor’s back patio and sat on a cold bench.
Tilting her face to the stars, Evelyne inhaled deeply and closed her eyes, wishing for the freedom of running—her only refuge amid the chaosof life. It had always been her escape, the steady beat of her footsteps silencing every thought until only the hush of exhaustion remained. But tonight, with the ball still alive behind her, she chose solitude instead.
The crash of shattering glass ripped through the stillness, yanking her back to the present. Evelyne twisted toward the sound, her heart jolting as her eyes locked on a silhouette in the dimly lit glass-walled foyer beyond the patio.
Cillian.
He stood among a cascade of broken glass, his hands streaked with blood. His posture was unnervingly still, and his gaze was fixed downward, empty and detached, as red liquid dripped from his fingers to the pool at his feet.
Evelyne gasped and rushed to him. “Cillian!”
He flinched at the sound of her voice, but didn’t move. She reached him, her hands flying to his, frantically wrapping the deep gashes with nearby linens. The blood soaked through almost instantly, her fingers slippery as she tried to staunch the flow.
“Cillian,” she pleaded. “What happened? Tell me.”
His wide eyes met hers, gold flickering in their depths, and for a moment, Evelyne felt like he was a stranger. Terror and confusion flashed across his face as his lips parted as if to speak, but no words came.
Servants arrived in a flurry of motion, bearing bandages and brooms to clean up the shattered glass. Evelyne kept her hand steady on Cillian’s shoulder, guiding him carefully inside. He moved in a daze, as if his body was obedient but his mind elsewhere.
Their father entered the room, his composed presence standing out against the commotion. His eyes scanned the scene before locking on Cillian.
“Summon the healers,”Lord Aron commanded. “Now.”
The servants froze, their eyes darting toward him.
“Not a word to Celeste. Not tonight.”
With that, he turned and strode out, leaving no room for argument.
Evelyne stayed by her brother’s side, watching as the healers tended to his wounds. Cillian drank a tonic reluctantly, its bitterness evident in his grimace, and soon, his body sagged with exhaustion. Evelyne didn’t leave until his breathing deepened into sleep.
No one dared speak of it aloud, but the truth lingered like a storm cloud.
It was happening again.
Chapter 4
Evelyne sat rigid at the dining table, absently pushing her eggs around her plate, her appetite nowhere to be found. The morning sun poured through the tall windows, its warmth doing little to thaw the icy tension in the room. Across from her, her mother sipped tea indifferently while her father and sister sat silently.
Cillian’s absence loomed over them, but no one spoke of it. The events of the previous night still echoed in Evelyne’s mind: the shattering glass, the blood on his hands, and his dazed, haunted expression. The healers had whispered among themselves through the night, but no answers had come.
Finally, her mother broke the silence. “Evelyne,” she began, her tone far too casual, “you left the ball early last night. How do you expect to find a husband behaving so… erratically?”
Evelyne’s fork clattered against her plate. “Cillian smashed through a glass door last night, Mother. He’s ill again, and no one knows why. And this is what you want to talk about?”
Her mother’s jaw tightened, but her expression didn’t falter. “Relax, dear. Boys his age often go through strange phases. What he needs is rest.” She paused. “And whatyouneed is to start thinking about your future.”
“Myfuture?” Evelyne’s voice rose, her hands trembling with frustration. “How can you sit there pretending nothing’s wrong while yourson—”
“That’s enough!” her mother hissed. “You will not raise your voice at me. I care about Cillian, but he is being looked after. Meanwhile, you have responsibilities. Lord Ivan Bavrick spoke with me last night, you know.” She paused again. “He has asked for your hand in marriage.”
