My Sister Stole My Mate And I Let Her (Seraphina) novel Chapter 524

Chapter 524: Chapter 524 A SECOND CHANCE (BONUS Chapter 2)

EVELYN’S POV

Normally, when one seeks air, one goes out, not down.

I am not one.

By the time I reached the lower levels of Nightfang packhouse—mansion, really—my erratic, tangled emotions had quieted.

They were compressed now, like pressure that sat beneath your ribs and expanded every time you tried not to think about it.

The dungeon corridors were colder than the medical wing. Stone walls swallowed sound and returned only echoes, while old wards hummed beneath the floors like distant insects trapped under ice.

Two guards stationed outside the final room straightened as I approached and gave me an acknowledging nod.

Neither stopped me nor questioned why I was here.

Like the medical wing, my presence here was a regular occurrence.

I pressed my palm against the warded door and felt the layered enchantments—containment wards, sedation wards, suppression arrays—recognize my magic before disengaging one by one beneath my fingertips.

The locks clicked open, and I stepped inside a room that looked nothing like a dungeon cell.

Medical equipment lined one wall beside rows of potions and carefully labeled ingredients.

Enchanted monitoring crystals floated above a small worktable littered with notes written in my own increasingly illegible handwriting.

A portable alchemical station occupied the far corner, while silver containment markings covered nearly every exposed surface.

The bed itself sat in the center of the room.

And on it was Jack.

For a moment, I simply stood there, staring at him. No matter how many times I saw him like this, it still felt so wrong.

Jack had always occupied space aggressively.

He’d lived, laughed, moved—even hated—loudly.

The man lying motionless beneath the blankets felt like a poisoned imitation of him, as if someone had taken my brother and rebuilt him from corrupted blueprints and fractured memories.

Given that Catherine was gone, Sera and Kieran had been kind enough to amend the condition I’d asked for and given me the chance to save Jack, but even after all the work I’d done, the damage lingered.

Dark veins still spiderwebbed beneath his pale skin, faint traces of corruption winding through him like ink spilled through water, retreating deeper whenever I reached for it with my magic.

But I refused to lose the last thing remotely close to a family I had.

“How are you this fine evening?” I muttered as I stepped into the room and the door slid shut behind me.

Jack didn’t answer.

Rude.

I moved automatically after that, setting ingredients onto the table and checking the enchanted monitors near the bed.

His vitals were stable. The corruption activity swirling within him was minimal.

Better than yesterday.

Not as good as two days ago.

Recovery, unfortunately, was rarely linear.

I hated that.

I hated too many things lately.

The mortar rotated beneath my hand.

Clockwise. Three turns.

Add silverroot.

Two drops of tincture.

Wait for the color change. The liquid darkened to a deep blue.

My lips pulled into a rare smile.

Magic obeyed rules. Magic made sense.

I carried the potion to Jack’s bedside and gently tilted his head back enough to pour it between his lips.

His throat moved automatically, his reflexes doing all the work.

"You’re improving," I said quietly. The words echoed against stone walls.

"The corruption pathways around your nervous system have reduced by almost twelve percent since last week."

I adjusted the blanket over his shoulders.

"Twelve-point-four percent, actually."

Precision mattered.

"I know you don’t care about all those numbers, but you’re unconscious, so your standards for exciting conversation are currently quite low."

Nothing.

I bit back a sigh. I would give anything for one of his irritated glares or one of his spiteful jabs: ‘Seriously, Evie, no one likes to hear all that droning about numbers.’

I sat beside him and rested my elbows against my knees.

Maybe I shouldn’t have put him to sleep, but I’d had no choice.

The first reunion had been a disaster.

After the battle, he’d been weak and terrified and confused and incandescent with rage. When he saw me, he exploded, hurling accusations in a spray of spittle.

Traitor. Enemy. Backstabber.

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