Page 1 of Until She’s Mine
Lucian
I ’ve always been good at appearing normal.
Polite, if not aloof, charming when necessary, and always, always in control.
It’s a mask I’ve perfected over the years, one that fits so seamlessly it almost feels like skin.
But beneath the well-tailored suits and the cold smiles, there’s something darker.
Something hungry.
It’s been there for as long as I can remember, coiled tightly in the pit of my stomach, waiting for the right moment to strike. I’ve learned to tame it, to disguise it as ambition and discipline, but it’s there, a restless beast prowling the edges of my restraint.
Lurking. Watching. Growing.
Controlling it requires constant vigilance, a relentless tightening of the leash I keep on myself.
My father taught me early on that emotions are a liability, a weakness to be exploited.
And so, I’ve become a master of suppression, burying everything beneath layers of indifference.
But there are moments when the mask slips.
Sometimes, it’s by mistake, a slip of the tongue or a flicker of expression that betrays the storm beneath.
Other times, it’s deliberate, a reckless indulgence to test the waters and see how far I can push before someone notices.
Those are the moments I live for, the ones where I let the beast stretch its claws, if only for a second.
Now is one of those times.
The leather chair groans as I shift my weight, a sound too loud in the sterile quiet of Dr. Whitmore’s office. I cross my ankles—a carefully calculated pose of ease—and consider how much truth to feed her today.
“Tell me why you’re here, Mr. Blackwood.”
Her pen hovers over the notepad, the gold band on her left hand catching the light. Married. Judging by the photos on her desk, she has two children. The framed medals on the wall suggest she might be a runner.
I catalog these details automatically, filing them away for later. Information is always useful, even if its purpose isn’t immediately clear.
“I have an obsession,” I say.
The pen twitches. “With?”
“My brother’s fiancée.”
Dr. Whitmore’s nostrils flare like all moral creatures’ do when scenting something rotten. “You’re aware it is inappropriate.”
“It’d imply I care about the rules.” My thumb strokes the watch beneath my cuff.
It’s a Patek Philippe, Father’s gift for passing the Bar.
“I cannot help but observe every little detail about her. She is all I see. All I want. Do you know how many times Evelyn touches her throat when she’s nervous?
Fourteen. Per hour. Twenty-two, if Tobias is particularly insufferable that day. ”
The pen slips from her fingers, rolling across her notepad. I track its path, noting the way the doctor’s breathing shallows.
“I know which wine makes Evelyn’s lips stain redder. In which room she hides when she’s overwhelmed. The exact shade of her blush when she’s caught off guard. I’ve memorized the way her fingers tremble when she’s holding back tears.” My voice drops to a murmur. “Most men fantasize. I catalog.”
“And this doesn’t trouble you?”
“Should it?”
Silence pools between us, thick and viscous.
“It would trouble most people.”
I relax back into the chair. “Then it’s fortunate I’m not most people.”
Her eyes narrow behind her glasses, searching for cracks in my composure.
She won’t find any. I’ve had thirty years of practice hiding behind masks—first from Father’s temper, then from opposing counsel, and now from the world at large.
All she sees is what I choose to show her—cool, unrepentant certainty.
“Is that why you’re here? To prove you don’t need help?”
“I’m here because my father insisted.”
For such an old-school man, Richard Blackwood clings to modern psychology like a drowning sailor to driftwood.
He’s confident that mandatory therapy will prevent burnout among Blackwood the only sound is the faint hum of the building’s air conditioning. My polished Oxfords are silent on the industrial gray carpet.
The receptionist glances up as I pass, her smile faltering when I don’t return it. She’s new—I can tell by the way she fumbles with her pen, unsure of how to handle my presence. I don’t slow down and step into the elevator.
As it descends, I check my phone. There are two new messages from my investigator:
Tobias missed another meeting. At the racetrack again.
Evelyn left work late. Headed to her apartment alone.
I slip the phone back into my pocket, my fingers brushing against the small velvet box inside. The engagement ring I purchased a few hours ago: a flawless emerald surrounded by diamonds, nothing like the gaudy monstrosity Tobias chose. This one is elegant. Timeless. Worthy of her.
The elevator doors open to the parking garage. My driver stands ready beside the town car, but I wave him off. I’ll walk today. The crisp spring air will help me think.
When I step onto the sidewalk, my phone vibrates again. A notification from the tracking app:
Evelyn Laurent’s Location: Home
I allow myself one last look at the therapist’s building before turning downtown.
Dr. Whitmore can write her notes. Father can think that his mandatory sessions are working. My brother can continue his slow self-destruction.
The game is already in motion.
And I never lose.