My Sister Stole My Mate, And I Let Her Chapter 458 CATHERINE’S DAUGHTER

TOBIAS’ POV

Evelyn's appearance was preceded by her entrance, arms crossed firmly over her chest. Her pristine pale blue attendant's uniform was immaculate, not a single strand of auburn hair daring to escape from beneath the cap that served as part of her disguise. To any casual observer, she might have seemed merely a senior medical attendant with a stern countenance. However, I perceived the witch concealed beneath that facade.

“If you act independently again like this,” she stated, her voice pitched low to avoid carrying beyond the confines of the door, “my ability to protect you will be compromised.”

I reached up, slightly loosening the scarf tied beneath my chin. “But you make me feel so incredibly safe.”

Her eyes narrowed. “This is hardly the time for jest.”

“I was not jesting.”

Evelyn’s lips tightened, and the very atmosphere around her seemed to shift. The light overhead flickered momentarily, and the room perceptibly cooled. A subtle pressure permeated the space, grazing my skin like the keen edge of a blade.

I had discovered long ago—from the obscure passages of ancient texts and from locales far less reputable than any sensible wolf would acknowledge visiting—that the blood of a true witch possessed a raw, elemental force. Evelyn's inherent power had always exhibited this characteristic; it was potent enough that, even when she endeavored to suppress it, the room appeared acutely aware of her emotional state.

I had encountered witches of her caliber previously—formidable and perilous women capable of subtly manipulating reality to the point where one began to question its very stability. Catherine, who wasn't even a full-blooded witch, served as ample proof of this phenomenon. Evelyn, in contrast...

I had never encountered anyone quite like her before. Three years prior, within a dilapidated boatyard bar in Fog Harbor that seemed to list precariously towards the sea as if contemplating a plunge, she materialized from the fog and irrevocably altered the course of my existence.

Upon the initial glance, I mistook her for Catherine. This was not due to any exact facial resemblance; aside from her silver hair, there was virtually no likeness. Catherine's beauty had always exuded an air of polished calculation, each expression meticulously arranged for maximum impact, every smile weighed against the anticipated reaction it would elicit.

Evelyn, however, appeared younger, with softer edges, her features less practiced and more vibrantly alive. Yet, there was something in her posture, the precise nature of her movements, and the faint, almost imperceptible whisper of magic that accompanied her entrance, making the old bar instantly feel too confined—a resonance that unsettled me deeply.

Then, her gaze met mine.

And I found myself pausing.

Her eyes were undoubtedly guarded, certainly suspicious. But beneath the surface of her wariness lay a profound hunger. This was not mere greed, nor was it Catherine's cold, all-consuming desire for absolute control. This was something distinct—a restless yearning to comprehend, to probe boundaries, and to discover her authentic self within a world that seemed determined to mold everyone into a uniform shape.

It painfully reminded me of Seraphina in her youth. She had gazed at me in a similar fashion years ago in Frostbane, when I urged her to simply breathe instead of clenching her fists, to embrace the murmur of her own power rather than attempting to stifle it.

She had been so small then, too young to grasp why people recoiled upon her arrival or why tears would silently trace Margaret’s cheek when she believed herself unobserved. A question burned in her young eyes: What is wrong with me?

Nothing. Absolutely nothing was wrong with that precious little girl. However, I had failed to shield her from the choices of others that ultimately dictated the trajectory of her life. That enduring regret had followed me across vast oceans.

Thus, when Evelyn stood in that weathered boatyard bar, appearing as yet another casualty of Catherine's machinations, I saw an opportunity for a second chance.

“You are late,” I remarked.

Evelyn’s brow arched slightly. “I beg your pardon?”

“If your intention is to terminate me, you are several years too late for that endeavor.”

A flicker of irritation crossed her features. “I see Mother was accurate in at least one assessment,” she stated with cool detachment, taking the seat opposite me. “You are insufferable.”

The simple act of hearing someone refer to Catherine as ‘Mother’ sent an involuntary shiver down my spine. Despite myself, a smile touched my lips. “Indeed I am. Would you care to discover the extent of it?”

Evelyn rolled her eyes. “Not particularly. Just cease your speech and accompany me.”

Leaning back, I folded my arms, observing her intently. “And what if I possess no desire to accompany you?”

Her gaze sharpened. “I shall incapacitate you with a spell, quite easily.”

A grin spread across my face. “I assure you, my dear, it will be anything but easy.”

Her other eyebrow rose. “Is that... a challenge you are issuing?”

“Oh? Do you find challenges appealing?”

She offered a slight shrug. “As I typically emerge victorious, they tend to be rather tiresome.”

A soft chuckle escaped me. “Then consider this proposal: Do not officially report your discovery of my whereabouts, thus avoiding the initiation of a ticking clock. If you can weave a spell potent enough to subdue me, you shall claim victory.”

She tilted her head, considering. “And what constitutes my defeat?”

The amusement vanished from my expression. “If I succeed in convincing you that you are inadvertently serving a monster.”

A visible flinch went through her. “Pardon me?”

I leaned forward, locking my gaze with hers. “Your. Mother. Is. A. Monster.”

In an instant, a small, menacing-looking knife materialized in her grasp, its tip aimed directly at my throat. Her eyes narrowed piercingly. “I ought to sever your tongue for uttering such a statement.”

I glanced at the weapon as if it were no more dangerous than a child’s toy. “Proceed, and thereby prove yourself a monster as well.”

A taut silence descended between us, each assessing the other's resolve.

I was not trusted by Evelyn; she harbored suspicions of my hidden agendas, which, admittedly, were not unfounded.

My own suspicion that she carried the essence of Catherine upon her soul was also not entirely mistaken.

After a pregnant pause, she conceded with a whisper, "Deal." The knife remained, however. "Mother desires you returned alive, but she didn't specify in one piece."

That initial exchange concluded not with my ire, but hers, as a glass shattered between us.

Our second meeting culminated in a small blaze within the lighthouse's storage area.

By the third encounter, she attempted to ensnare me within a salted circle.

That particular attempt nearly succeeded.

Evelyn was incandescent with rage when I dismantled the binding with a counter-sigil, a technique acquired from a half-blind sorceress in Lisbon.

"You are not meant to know that," she hissed, her eyes glinting with silver as the botched enchantment dissolved into wisps of smoke.

"And your casting suffers when your shoulders are tense," I countered. "It impedes the flow of power through the wrist."

Her jaw slackened for a fleeting moment before her scowl returned.

"Are you critiquing my technique?"

"I surmised you would welcome constructive feedback over hollow praise."

"I'd rather not receive lessons from a glorified canine."

A smirk played on my lips. "Then endeavor to cast with greater skill, Fairy Godmother."

The glare she fixed upon me could have ignited my coat.

Evelyn and I crossed paths countless times in those initial weeks.

It became apparent that while hers was the mind of a gifted witch, it was also one lacking in crucial areas.

Certain spells she wove with an innate precision that would have taken most sorceresses decades to master, yet others she had learned amiss, as Catherine had guided her around genuine knowledge rather than through it. Entire disciplines of the craft remained unexplored by Evelyn.

How these two had become a mother-daughter unit was a mystery I was too cautious to probe.

Regardless, it was Catherine who had raised and schooled her, but only along paths that served Catherine's own interests.

For a talent as prodigious as Evelyn's, it was akin to a gilded cage.

Perhaps this was the very reason for her persistent returns.

Initially, she convinced herself her visits were motivated by the challenge—to test me, to expose my deceptions, and to validate Catherine's cautionary tales about me.

Subsequently, her visits were prompted by my possession of knowledge Catherine had deliberately withheld. Later still, it was because I engaged her in practice duels without transforming every lesson into an experiment or a demand.

Beyond Catherine, Evelyn lacked anyone of sufficient strength or wisdom to truly challenge her; even her sessions with her adoptive mother were never fully her own.

Catherine employed practice as a metric, transforming exercises into mere data points. Evelyn's corrections were not intended for her growth, but to hone her utility.

The very first time Evelyn successfully countered one of my defenses, she emitted a laugh. The sound surprised even her, as if unburdened joy had caught her off guard.

The moment passed swiftly. She recomposed her features, lifted her chin, and acted as if it had never occurred.

It was in that instant I glimpsed the witch she might have become, free from Catherine's oppressive influence.

"You realize," I remarked weeks later, as we took shelter beneath the dilapidated roof of a disused sail-mending shed, surrounded by arcane chalk markings and shattered spell anchors, "that had fate not cruelly placed you under Catherine's tutelage, you might have blossomed into a formidable sorceress."

Evelyn's demeanor turned frosty in an instant.

"You comprehend nothing of her contributions to my life."

"I comprehend enough."

Her hand rose, and the chalk patterns encompassing us began to quiver.

"Why must she compel you to wear that dreadful green gown and a wig when you run her minor errands?" I inquired. "Why does she keep your existence concealed from the world? And more importantly, why does she keep the true you hidden, even from yourself?"

"She rescued me," Evelyn retorted, her eyes blazing. "She took me in, nurtured me, and bestowed purpose upon me."

"A purpose that serves her alone."

The initial spell struck with such force that it drove me back three paces.

The second would have sent me crashing through the wall had I not shifted my footing and severed the connecting thread just before it could tighten.

A twelve-day silence ensued between us.

On the thirteenth day, Evelyn reappeared at the boatyard, raindrops adorning her hair and dark circles shadowing her eyes.

No apology was offered.

Nor was one solicited from me.

Her sole utterance was, "Show me that countermark once more."

And so, I did.

This was the crucible through which our bond was forged—though 'bond' might be an overstatement.

It was built upon disputes, partial revelations, reluctant admissions, and the slow, relentless accumulation of truths that neither of us could indefinitely dismiss.

For Evelyn was no simpleton.

Initially, she vehemently rejected my suspicions regarding Catherine, dismissing them as mere bitterness—the resentment of a man who felt slighted and could never forgive the world for advancing without him.

Some portion of that might have held a kernel of truth.

Yet, facts remained immutable.

One evening, she staggered into the bar, her eyes wide with an almost spectral pallor, as if she had witnessed apparitions.

I listened with patience as she haltingly recounted her experience.

Upon her conclusion, I took a slow sip of my whiskey, then set the glass down.

"What is it you require of me?" I asked.