The first sensation was pain. A white-hot, grinding agony that condensed into the mother of all headaches. Then came the cacophony—a dissonant orchestra of cheering, clinking glasses, and boisterous laughter that hammered against his skull.
I'm dead. This is hell. A very loud, very bright hell.
Ethan—or the consciousness that had been Ethan—forced his eyes open. The light from a dozen crystal chandeliers was assaultive. He was slumped in a high-backed chair at a long table groaning under the weight of roasted boars, glazed fowl, and mountains of pastries. The air was thick with the smell of roasted meat, spilled wine, and perfume.
He was in a grand hall, all dark wood and tapestry-hung stone walls. And he was at the center of it all.
"To the happy couple!" a portly, red-faced man bellowed, raising a sloshing tankard. "May Baronet Ethan von Gutenberg find some measure of peace, and his lovely bride, Evangeline, the patience of a saint!"
The toast was met with a roar of laughter that had a sharp, mocking edge. Ethan's gaze, bleary and disoriented, swept the room. These men and women, dressed in silks and velvets, were not friends. Their smiles were too wide, their eyes too gleeful. They were spectators at a circus, and he was the main attraction.
A torrent of alien memories, sharp and painful as broken glass, flooded his mind.
Ethan von Gutenberg. Son of Baron Alistair. Wastrel. Disappointment. Sent away from the imperial capital in disgrace. This marriage to a commoner from a backwater village is his father's final, desperate attempt to civilize him. Last night... the wedding... I... he... drank himself into a stupor.
He had died. A screech of tires, the shattering of glass, the crushing finality of metal. A life of quiet loneliness in a small apartment, an existence that left no ripple. And now this. Reborn into the body of a man who was everything he despised: privileged, wasteful, and cruel.
A wave of despair threatened to drown him. Was this some cosmic joke?
Then, his eyes found her.
She sat beside him, her posture rigidly straight, hands folded in her lap. Evangeline. His wife.
The memories supplied a cruel commentary. Father found her in some godforsaken village. Drab. Plain. A perfect punishment for a son who preferred the company of painted courtesans.
But the Ethan who looked at her now saw none of that.
He saw a young woman with mousy brown hair pulled into a severe bun that did little to flatter her face. A smattering of freckles across a nose that was perhaps a touch too wide. Eyes the color of a winter sky, downcast, hiding their expression behind long, pale lashes. She was dressed in a simple gown of grey wool, starkly out of place amidst the peacocks of the nobility.
She was average. Unassuming. And to the soul that had been utterly alone, she was the most beautiful, solid, real thing he had ever seen.
A feeling so profound it stole his breath washed over him. It wasn't lust, or infatuation. It was a desperate, clawing need. A connection. A tether in this terrifying new world. Family.
In his previous life, he had been an island. No parents to call, no one to miss him when he worked late, no shared laughter over a meal. The emptiness of his apartment was a physical weight. And here, by some mad twist of fate, he had been given a wife. A person who was now, by law and custom, his. The very concept was so alien, so overwhelmingly precious, that his eyes stung.
He would not be the man this body had been. He could not. That life was a curse; this, this was a second chance. A miracle.
He tried to speak, to say something, anything, to her. But all that came out was a pained groan. The hangover, the disorientation, it was too much. He slumped forward, his forehead thudding against the polished wood of the table. The raucous laughter around him intensified.
Through the roaring in his ears, he heard a voice, soft and clear beside him. "My lord? Are you unwell?"
It was the first time anyone had spoken to him with something other than mockery or command. The concern in her voice, even if it was just duty, felt like a balm.
He felt a small, cool hand tentatively touch his arm. It was a fleeting contact, gone as soon as it came, but it sent a jolt through him.
Thank you, he thought, a silent prayer to any god that might be listening. Thank you. I don't know why or how, but I will be better. I will deserve this.
Evangeline's POV
Evangeline watched her new husband collapse onto the table with a mixture of disgust and clinical detachment. So this is the great scion of the von Gutenbergs, she thought, her lip wanting to curl. The man I am to spy on. The Demon Queen will be disappointed; there is nothing of strategic value here, only a drunken fool.
She had taken this form carefully. The freckles, the plain features, the unremarkable figure—it was a masterpiece of magical disguise, designed to be overlooked, to be deemed unworthy of attention by a known womanizer. She had expected revulsion, perhaps even violence, from him. She was prepared to endure it, or if necessary, make his death look like an accident.
But his behavior since the ceremony had been... baffling.
Last night, at the wedding feast, he had stared at her. Not with lust or contempt, but with a kind of dazed, wondering awe, as if she were a priceless artifact that had suddenly appeared before him. He hadn't tried to touch her. He had barely spoken. He had just... stared, until the drink had claimed him.
And now, as he lifted his head from the table, his eyes, bloodshot and pained, met hers. For a fleeting second, before the pain and confusion clouded them again, she saw something utterly foreign in their hazel depths. It wasn't the arrogant gleam she had been briefed on. It was something raw. Vulnerable. Almost... grateful.
It unsettled her. This was not part of the plan.
Her thoughts drifted, as they often did, to Lord Sepheron. The Third General. His power was like a calm, deep ocean, his presence a bastion of strength and purpose. He would never disgrace himself like this. He would never look at a creature like her human disguise with anything but cold utility. She was here to prove herself to him, to show that she was more than just a deadly weapon, that she could be a cunning spy.
She pushed the thought away and performed her duty. "My lord? Are you unwell?"
She reached out, letting her fingers brush the fine wool of his sleeve, recoiling at the feel of the human fabric, of the warmth of his arm beneath it. The touch was a lie, but a necessary one.
He flinched at her touch, his eyes widening slightly. He looked like a lost child.
What game is this? Evernight Abadeer, General of the Nocturne, felt the first stirrings of suspicion. This pathetic creature was an assignment, a stepping stone. He was not supposed to be confusing. He was not supposed to look at her as if she held the key to his salvation.
For the first time since accepting this mission, a sliver of genuine unease pierced her cold heart. Perhaps this would be more complicated than she had anticipated.