My Husband Never Dies - Chapter 15
Evelyn froze.
Not a breath passed her lips as she turned her head ever so slightly toward the sound. Every nerve in her body had gone taut. She silenced her presence — shortened her breath, flattened her aura, became a shadow in the fog.
This was bad.
If it was a predator, some carnivore stalking through the wilds, things would turn ugly fast. She had her dagger, yes, and more ways to kill a man than most men had fingers, but that was hardly comfort against a bear. No ranged weapon, no escape route. She’d be done for.
But the steps were too light for a bear. Too quick, too… purposeful. Not the shambling thump of paws. Not a wolf’s four-beat gait.
Could it have been another human being?
She narrowed her eyes. That, too, came with its own problems. Who would be walking alone in this desolate expanse? A bandit? Another fugitive like herself? Or…
Her stomach dropped.
The Duke?
The image of that elegant face flashed across her mind without warning, and her body betrayed her with a shiver. No, it couldn’t be.
She pulled the hood back over her head in one smooth motion, silent as mist, and crouched low in the swirling fog. The presence was growing stronger, closer with every step, and Evelyn scanned her surroundings with sharp, measured eyes.
Nothing. No shadow. No silhouette. Not even the shape of a hand reaching through the veil.
But the footsteps didn’t stop. They were headed her way. Deliberate. Unhurried.
Coming straight for her.
Rustle!
The sound of footsteps crushing wild grass. A steady and inevitable rhythm walked across the earth — unmistakably toward her.
‘Fxck, fxck, fxck!’
The footsteps grew louder. Nearer. Yet no matter how her eyes searched the fog, there was no sign of a figure, no silhouette, not even a shadow bleeding through the mist.
It made no sense. Even in this fog, a body should leave some trace — an outline, a shifting of air, anything. Unless the footsteps were a hallucination, this shouldn’t be possible.
She felt cursed. Haunted like something out of the old stories. Had she stumbled into the reach of a witch’s curse? Ensnared by some godforsaken spell?
Panic coiled around her lungs. Evelyn’s hand flew to the hidden dagger at her waist, gripping the hilt with white-knuckled force. Her palm was slick with cold sweat, and her breathing came shallow.
She scanned the mist, searching for shelter — a rock, a tree, anything she could use as cover. Her eyes darted in frantic calculation.
It happened so suddenly. Out of the fog, with no warning and no sound, an arm reached through the emptiness. Solid. Human. Strong. It wrapped around her waist with practiced ease, as if it belonged there.
Her body stiffened, but before she could move, before she could even scream, a voice crashed down from just above her head — low, calm, and final.
“Found you.”
Evelyn could barely breathe, her heart sinking to the ground. She didn’t dare lift her head. She was terrified that if she saw who was wrapping their arm around her waist… she might lose her mind.
Fsssshh…
A breeze stirred from somewhere. It wasn’t a warm one. Though spring had arrived, the northern air remained chilly, and the deep hours of the night, without even a trace of sun, were colder still.
“Eve.”
The thick fog began to scatter, likely from the wind. The grass and weeds on the ground, the trees reaching into the sky without fear, all swayed helplessly, rustling with an eerie sound as the breeze swept through them.
Unlike the cold air, a warm breath settled against the nape of her neck.
“Eve, my one and only wife.”
The voice, sweet enough to enchant any woman, now sounded utterly chilling. Still staring downward, Evelyn watched in horror as the once-formless shadow began to take shape.
Under the moonlight, the upper body that had been floating in the mist now sank to meet the earth. And then, just before her eyes, a pair of luxurious leather shoes — unseen until that moment — stepped into view.
The Duke of Brumfield stroked Evelyn’s face with his other hand. His touch was gentle and tender, as if caressing something precious. He brushed her cheek softly, over and over, with a kindness that belied the situation.
Then, in a firm voice, the Duke said:
“No more strolls now. It’s time to go back.”
Overwhelmed by fear and dread, Evelyn couldn’t even move her lips. She no longer cared how this man had tracked her down, how he had concealed himself only to appear like a ghost.
Calix Brumfield was someone who had died, only to come back to life. So perhaps something like this… was entirely within his reach. A runaway bride? He could retrieve one of those with ease.
And just like that, her first escape ended in failure.
