Page 10 of Until She’s Mine

Evelyn

T he next evening, I dress carefully. I choose a black sheath dress that hugs my curves without being overly revealing, pairing it with heels that click sharply against the pavement. My hair falls in loose waves, and I wear minimal makeup, enough to look polished but not like I’m trying too hard.

This isn’t a date.

This is... something else entirely.

The Vault looms before me, an unassuming building with a single brass plaque by the door. No sign, no indication of what lies inside. I press the buzzer, and the door clicks open almost immediately. A man in a tailored suit greets me with a nod.

“Ms. Laurent,” he says. “This way.”

He leads me through a dimly lit corridor, with walls covered in dark wood and velvet drapes that absorb sound. My heels sink into the plush carpet as I follow him. The air grows heavier, thick with anticipation.

We stop before a set of double doors. The man pushes them open with a soft creak and gestures for me to enter. “Mr. Blackwood is waiting for you.”

The room is vast, yet intimate in its opulence.

A low fire crackles in the black marble fireplace, casting flickering shadows across the walls lined with bookshelves and art.

In the center of the room stands Lucian, his back to me as he gazes into the flames.

His hair is slightly disheveled, as though he’s been running his fingers through it.

He’s dressed in a grey cashmere sweater and tailored trousers.

“Evelyn,” he says. “You came.”

I step further into the room, and the doors click shut behind me with finality.

“You knew I would.”

He turns, and his eyes meet mine. As always, his gaze is cool, assessing, and unnervingly intense.

“I did,” Lucian admits, stepping closer.

The firelight dances across his features, highlighting the sharp angles of his face and the shadows that linger in his eyes.

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a single white glove.

It’s pristine, as though it had never been lost. His fingers brush against mine as he hands it to me, and the contact burns like a brand.

I want. I desire. I ache .

“Is that the only thing of mine you’ve been keeping?” I take the glove, my fingers brushing against his again, deliberately this time. The corner of his mouth twitches.

“You tell me. What else do you think I’ve taken from you?”

“My peace of mind, for one.”

He chuckles, a low, rumbling sound that seems to vibrate through the room. “That was never mine to take. You gave it up willingly.”

“And what exactly am I supposed to give up now?”

“Nothing you’re not already willing to part with. Let’s not pretend this is about the glove or peace of mind. You’re here because you want to be.”

“I’m here to thank you for the restoration project,” I say before he can delve deeper into truths I’m not ready to confront. I straighten my posture. “It’s a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, and I’m grateful.”

“The restoration project,” he repeats slowly. His gaze drops to my lips before returning to my eyes. “A convenient excuse, but we both know you could’ve sent a note or made a call. You didn’t need to come here in person.”

“Maybe I wanted to see what kind of man would ask his brother’s fiancée to meet him in a place like this.”

Lucian tilts his head. “And what have you concluded?” His voice drops to a near whisper. “What kind of man do you see when you look at me?”

“A dangerous one. Someone who plays games with stakes, I’m not sure I understand.”

“You understand more than you let on. You always have.” He reaches out, his fingers brushing a loose strand of hair from my face. “Have a drink with me.”

He steps over to the bar, his movements precise and unhurried. After pouring two glasses of amber liquid, he returns and pulls out a chair for me. I sit down.

Lucian takes the seat next to me. The firelight reflects in his eyes, giving them a molten quality that makes it impossible to look away.

He raises his glass. “To curiosity.”

I lift mine in response. “Curiosity can be dangerous.”

“So can denial.”

The whiskey burns as I take a sip, its warmth spreading through me. Lucian’s gaze lingers on my face.

“You’re staring,” I murmur into my glass.

“Counting your freckles.” His fingertip traces the rim of his drink. “You’ve got twenty-seven on your left cheek. Thirty-two on your right. Like constellations.”

Heat floods my cheeks, and I lower my glass. “And what do you hope to map out with those constellations?”

“Everything. Every detail, every mark, every secret you try to hide. I want to know it all.”

I take another sip of my drink. “You might not like what you find.”

“I’m willing to take that risk.”

The whiskey unravels me thread by thread as Lucian steers the conversation from the Caravaggio painting to art in general.

He speaks of brushstrokes and restoration techniques with an expertise that surprises me, as though he’s studied them for years.

When he brings up my abandoned thesis on Baroque forgery techniques and quotes passages I wrote five years ago at NYU, I ask, “You’ve read my work? ”

His knee brushes mine under the table. “Of course, I did.”

By the third glass, I’m confessing things I’ve never told Tobias—how I’ve always felt like an outsider in the Blackwood world. How I’ve spent years trying to prove myself worthy of their peer approval. How I’ve come to realize that no matter what I do, I’ll always fall short.

“You don’t need to prove anything,” he says. “Not to them. Not to anyone.”

I laugh softly. “Easy for you to say. You’ve always been the golden child, the one they can count on. Tobias may have the charm, but you… You have the power.”

His eyes darken at that, and his thumb swipes a droplet of whiskey from my lower lip. “Power is overrated. What good is it if it doesn’t give you what you truly want?”

I swallow hard. “And what is it you want?”

“You already know.”

“You can’t just imply things like that. You know I can’t—”

“Can’t want me back? Can’t admit that you think about me as much as I think about you? I’ve watched you, Evelyn. You’re not content with your life. You wear a mask, but it doesn’t fit. I know what it’s like to live behind a mask. The cost of it.”

“You think you know me so well. But you don’t.”

“I know you better than Tobias ever could. He sees what he wants to see—a beautiful woman who fits neatly into his vision of the perfect life. Quiet. Compliant. Convenient. You’ve spent your life bending to the expectations of others. When was the last time you did something purely for yourself?”

Three years ago and my life went to hell, I think.

“Is that why I’m here? To do something for myself?”

“Are you?” He looks at my lips again. “Then you should kiss me. One kiss,” he murmurs. “Just one taste and then tell me you don’t want more.”

My heartbeat echoes in my ears. I should pull away, should remember where I am, who I am. But the whiskey has dulled the edges of my resolve, and his nearness is intoxicating.

And I’m weak, so weak .

Lucian’s hand rises to cup my cheek. His eyes search mine for permission.

My silence is answer enough.

When his parted lips brush mine, the world narrows to this single point of contact.

His kiss is nothing like I expected, not demanding or possessive, but achingly tender and reverent.

His mouth moves against mine with the patience of a man who has been waiting a lifetime for this moment and intends to savor every second.

He nips my bottom lip, and I gasp, the sound swallowed by his mouth as he deepens the kiss. His tongue sweeps against mine, and I suck on it. He tastes so addictive. Like whiskey and warm spices. My hands find his shoulders, fingers digging into the soft cashmere as he pulls me closer.

Every rational thought dissolves under the heat of his touch. His hand slides to the nape of my neck, fingers tangling in my hair as he tilts my head back. The kiss grows hungrier, desperate. It is everything I’ve been denying myself—raw, consuming, perfect.

When we finally part, I’m breathless, my lips swollen and tingling. Lucian’s forehead rests against mine, his breathing as ragged as my own.

“Tell me to stop, and I will.” Lucian’s voice is rough; the words are being dragged from somewhere deep within him.

But I can’t.

The lie won’t form on my lips.

His gaze burns into mine, daring me to deny what’s already been set into motion. The fire crackles in the hearth, its warmth a stark contrast to the chill that runs through me, not from fear, but from anticipation.

“You should hate me,” I whisper.

His laugh is dark honey. “I don’t. Hate is too simple, too clean. What I feel for you is messy. Complicated. Inevitable.” His thumb traces the line of my jaw. “And you should hate me, too. But you don’t.”

I don’t. He’s Tobias’s brother, and he’s stalking me, for God’s sake. But instead of revulsion, I feel a pull so magnetic it defies logic. Every warning bell in my head is drowned out by the thundering of my pulse.

“This is wrong.”

Lucian leans in closer, the table digging into his side. “Wrong? Perhaps. But it feels right, doesn’t it?” His lips brush against my ear, and I close my eyes. “Tell me it doesn’t feel like the most honest thing you’ve done in years.”

Honesty is a luxury I haven’t allowed myself in so long. Not with Tobias, not with my work, not even with myself. But here, with Lucian’s presence consuming every inch of my awareness, there’s no room for pretense.

My fingers tighten on his sweater, anchoring myself against the flood of emotions threatening to pull me under. “You don’t play fair.”

“Fairness is overrated. Life isn’t fair, Evelyn. You know that better than most.”

I had a fair share of hardships. I worked three jobs to help with my mother’s medical bills before she passed.

I buried her alone. Now, I have to hide every single piece of myself to fit into a mold Tobias created for me.

But Lucian doesn’t ask me to fit into anything. He doesn’t ask me to be less than I am.