Chapter 154

Agnes

Sunlight streamed through the bedroom window, illuminating Elijah’s dark eyes. It was morning. I was in bed, safe although terrified, and the house was just as it always was. Warm and cozy, embers still glowing in the fireplace, and not a cobweb or a skeleton to be seen.

Elijah’s face hovered mere inches from mine, his chest rising and falling rapidly. His hands were wrapped around my wrists, pinning them to the mattress. Our bodies were pressed together, and despite everything, his weight was comforting.

“Agnes,” he breathed, sitting up ever so slightly. “Are you okay?”

A profound sense of relief washed over me at the sight of him. He was here. He was real. Not a ghost, not a figment of my imagination.

“I’m fine,” I managed. My throat was raw and sore, and just those two words hurt. “Just a bad dream.”

He released my wrists and moved off of me. The sudden loss of his weight left me feeling oddly cold and empty. “Bad dream? Agnes, you were screaming bloody murder. Everyone could hear you from downstairs. I thought—” He cut himself off, shaking his head. “What the hell happened?”

I swallowed, trying to collect my thoughts. The dream was still vivid in my mind—the skeleton in Thea’s bed, the ghostly hands, the voice of my wolf whispering Mason’s name. My wolf calling him my…

My mate.

But I didn’t tell him any of that. I just couldn’t. Not right now, at least. Not until I had time to clear my head and consider all the factors, including his alleged remarriage to Olivia.

“I took the witch’s potion last night,” I said, avoiding his gaze as I pushed myself up to a seated position. “I couldn’t sleep, and I remembered she said it had a mild sedative effect.”

Elijah frowned, his eyes darkening. “You mean this potion?”

He pointed toward the nightstand, and I turned my head to look. Instead of seeing the small bottle, I found shattered glass scattered across the floor, the remains of the potion dripping down the table and soaking into the carpet.

“I must have knocked it over,” I said, my shoulders sagging. “While I was thrashing around.”

“That’s a shame,” he said, staring at the mess. “Was it helping you communicate with your wolf?”

Truly, I wondered if it had. Had that really been my wolf speaking to me, or just some bizarre conjuring of my subconscious? The voice had felt familiar, a voice I used to hear so often before she was taken from me. But the message…

“I think I might have,” I admitted, not wanting to lie about at least one thing. “Communicated with her, I mean.”

Elijah’s expression brightened. “That’s progress. What did she say?”

I looked away, not wanting him to read the truth in my eyes. “I’m not sure. It was confusing. Jumbled.” I ran a hand through my tangled hair. “Despite how terrifying the dream was, maybe it was the edge of a breakthrough. I should go back to the witch’s shop and get another bottle so I can try again.”

At that, Elijah’s face fell. To my surprise, he reached out and took my hand in his. His palm was warm against mine, and made my heart flutter more than I expected it to. But his next words cooled me instantly.

“Agnes, I have some bad news.”

A chill ran down my spine. “What is it?”

“The witch is dead.”

I blinked, stunned. “Dead? How?”

Elijah’s jaw tightened. “I found her last night. That’s where I was—at her shop, and then at the police station. I believe the rogues who attacked me killed her. Made it look like a suicide, but…” He shook his head. “The spellbook we gave her is missing. Stolen.”

“So that’s where you were last night?” The words came out raw, choked. I couldn’t believe she was dead. She was the one person who was supposed to be able to help me get my wolf back. The one person who might be able to help Elijah unmark Olivia, assuming he… still even planned on doing that. I didn’t know anymore.

He nodded, seemingly oblivious to my confusion. “I spent hours at the police station, answering questions. They didn’t suspect me, but they needed to know everything. I didn’t have time to call or text until late, and by then I figured you were asleep.”

Relief washed over me, a feeling that was so strong it left me dizzy. So he hadn’t been with Olivia. He hadn’t been planning a wedding behind my back. He’d been at the police station, dealing with an alleged homicide.

Had I completely misinterpreted everything? The jewelry, the wedding gown comment—had I let my insecurities and Mason’s warnings twist them into something sinister? Or was there still something I was missing?

“Agnes?” Elijah squeezed my hand gently. “Are you okay? You look pale.”

I forced a smile, pushing aside my suspicions for now. “I’m fine. Just shocked about the witch. And thank you, for waking me up from that nightmare. It was…” I shuddered, remembering the little skeleton in Thea’s bed. “It was horrible.”

He studied me for a moment, as if trying to decide whether to press further. Finally, he nodded and stood up. “You should shower. I’ll clean up this glass and check on Thea. She’s still asleep, but I want to make sure your screaming didn’t disturb her.”

“Thank you,” I said, watching as he bent to carefully pick up the larger shards of glass.

Once I was alone, I sat on the edge of the bed, my mind racing. The witch was dead. Murdered, allegedly. And someone had stolen the spellbook—the very book that might have contained a way to break Elijah’s mate bond with Olivia and bring my wolf back.

And most of all, my wolf had called Mason my mate.

None of it made sense. My wolf was still present and active when I had dated Mason years ago, and I had never felt any kind of special connection to him. No pull, no instinctive recognition. I loved him, yes, deeply, but not on that primal level that fated mates can feel.

If he was truly my mate, wouldn’t I have known back then?

Or maybe, a small voice whispered in my head, the bond just hadn’t formed yet. Maybe it needed time, or proximity, or some other factor I didn’t understand.

I shook my head, pushing the thought away. I didn’t have time for this now. I needed to shower, to wash away the cold sweat and fear from my nightmare. To clear my head before I faced the day.

The hot water was a blessing, streaming over my skin and washing away the bad dream. But my mind remained fixated on everything.

If Elijah wasn’t planning to remarry Olivia, then what was going on? Why had Olivia bought the same jewelry I did, claiming it was for “the big day”? Why did she say someone was making her a wedding gown with a matching one for Thea? Was it just another one of her manipulations, an attempt to pull us apart?

If the spellbook was now gone—perhaps stolen by the same rogues who had attacked Elijah the other night—did that mean Elijah would never be able to break his mate bond with Olivia? Would he be tied to her forever, even if he tried to build a life with me?

Furthermore, if Mason truly was my mate, not Elijah, then… would I even want to build a life with him anymore if my wolf could be restored, or would I be bound to the same irresistible pull that Elijah felt toward Olivia?

And most of all…

Why had someone killed the witch and stolen the spellbook? Was it unrelated to us, perhaps just a dark coincidence, or was someone watching us and trying to keep us from reaching our goals?

The questions swirled in my head like the steam rising around me.

After my shower, I dressed quickly, pulling on comfortable clothes for a day of sewing. That was what I needed—the familiar rhythm of the sewing machine, the process of creation. It always helped clear my head, even during the darkest times.

My dress for the gala—or whatever the party was now—still stood on the mannequin in the attic, the champagne silk almost seeming to glow in the morning light. I paused in the doorway, studying it. It was beautiful, elegant, and undeniably bridal in its coloring.

But was it for me, or for Olivia?

I’d designed it myself, poured my heart into every stitch. Elijah had seemed genuinely pleased with my progress, had even sent me to buy jewelry to match it. Would he really do all that if he intended to give the gown to Olivia instead?

No. I refused to believe he could be that cruel.

And yet, the doubt lingered, forming a small cold knot in the pit of my stomach. I couldn’t quite shake it, not after everything I’d seen and heard.

For now, though, I would continue sewing. Even if the worst was true—even if the gown was meant for Olivia to wear—the act of creation would soothe me. The repetitive motion of the needle through the fabric would help order my chaotic thoughts, give me space to think through everything that had happened.

At least for the time being.