Page 12 of Until She’s Mine

Evelyn

I spend the rest of the week pretending that nothing had happened.

The museum becomes my sanctuary, the Madonna painting my sole focus.

I lose myself in the delicate process of stabilizing the cracked varnish and repairing the splintered wood.

Marcus watches me with concern, his questions laced with suspicions, but I deflect them with practiced ease.

Tobias is busy with his usual social whirl—late nights at the club, early mornings at the office, and the occasional perfunctory text to check in.

I tell myself it’s a relief, this distance.

It gives me space to think, breathe, and suppress the chaos Lucian has unleashed.

But space is a dangerous thing. It leaves room for memories to surface: the heat of Lucian’s gaze, the weight of his words, and the sensation of his lips on mine.

I try to push them away, but they linger like shadows, creeping into my thoughts when I least expect them.

I find myself glancing over my shoulder in crowded rooms, half-expecting to see him watching me from the edges.

At night, my dreams are restless, filled with fragments of him.

By Friday, I’m fraying at the edges. The Madonna’s restoration is nearly complete, but my focus is slipping.

My head throbs in time with the ticking of the clock on the wall.

I blink at the painting under my brush, the colors swimming together.

Three cups of coffee and two Ibuprofen pills haven’t touched the fever burning behind my eyes.

“Christ, Laurent.” Marcus’s shadow falls across my workspace. “You look like death warmed over.”

I don’t lift my head. “Flatterer.”

He snatches the paintbrush from my hand and sets it aside. “Go home, Evelyn. You’re no use to anyone like this.”

“I just need to finish this—” My vision swims as I straighten, and Marcus grabs my arm to steady me.

“Bullshit. You’re pale as a ghost and shaking like a leaf.” He guides me to a chair. “When was the last time you slept?”

I don’t answer. Sleep has been elusive these past few nights, my dreams haunted by Lucian.

Marcus sighs. “Look, I know things have been complicated lately. But you need to take care of yourself. This—” he gestures at the half-finished painting, “—can wait.”

I nod numbly, too exhausted to argue. Marcus helps me gather my things and walks me to the door, his concern etched into the lines of his face.

The late spring sun warms my skin as I step outside.

My phone buzzes in my pocket just as I reach the curb.

A familiar black car pulls up, its tinted windows reflecting the sunlight.

The driver steps out, a man in a crisp suit with an air of practiced efficiency. “Miss Laurent,” he says, opening the door. “Mr. Blackwood sent me.”

My stomach twists.

Of course, he did.

“Which one?” I ask, knowing the answer before it leaves the driver’s lips.

“Mr. Lucian Blackwood. He thought you might require assistance.”

I hesitate, my fingers tightening around the strap of my bag. Lucian’s attention is both suffocating and irresistible, a paradox I can’t seem to escape. His presumption should infuriate me, but it only deepens the ache in my chest.

Nodding stiffly, I slide into the backseat.

R ain slicks the pavement as I stumble into my apartment building.

The elevator smells like bleach and Chinese takeout, and the fluorescent lights hurt my eyes.

I don’t remember unlocking the door. Don’t remember kicking off my shoes.

Just the blessed relief of collapsing onto my couch, the world tilting as my head meets the cushion.

My eyelids flutter shut, and the world fades into a hazy blur.

The sleep has almost claimed me when the doorbell rings.

I consider ignoring it. Then it rings again.

I drag myself to the door, my body heavy with exhaustion, and peer through the peephole.

My breath catches.

Lucian Blackwood stands in the hallway, his suit immaculate despite the rain, water glistening in his dark hair, a paper bag in one hand, and a pharmacy bag in the other.

I swing the door open.

“You,” I croak.

His gaze rakes over my ratty NYC sweatshirt, the mascara smudged under my eyes, and the way I’m clinging to the doorframe like it’s the only thing keeping me upright.

“Obviously.” He holds up the bag. “Chicken pho. The good kind from that place on 54th.”

I should slam the door. But the weight of his eyes on me is too addictive.

It’s nice to be cared for.

“You have nothing better to do than harass sick women?”

“Not particularly.” He nudges past me, his cashmere coat brushing against me. “Lock the door, Evelyn. Unless you want me to do it for you.”

My kitchen isn’t built for men like Lucian.

He dwarfs the space, his tailored suit at odds with my chipped mugs and thrift-store plates.

I watch from the doorway as he unpacks the food with unsettling precision, arranging the containers just so, testing the soup’s temperature with the tip of his finger.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” I say. The words are weak, a half-hearted protest that neither of us believes. My body betrays me, leaning against the doorframe for support as a wave of dizziness washes over me.

Lucian doesn’t look up from the counter. “And yet, here I am.” He opens the pharmacy bag and sets out a bottle of cold medicine, a pack of tissues, and a box of my favorite tea—peppermint. “You’re in no state to argue.”

But I want to argue. I want to tell him to leave, to remind him of the lines we’ve already crossed and the ones we’re dangerously close to erasing. But the sight of him in my kitchen, so out of place, yet so impossibly right, leaves me speechless.

“Sit.” He pulls out a chair. “Before you fall.”

I try proving him wrong, but my knees buckle the second I take a step.

Lucian catches me before I hit the ground.

For one terrifying second, his hands span my waist, and his breath warms my temple. Then he deposits me in the chair like a misbehaving child.

“Eat.” He pushes the pho toward me. “Or I’ll spoon-feed you.”

The threat shouldn’t make my pulse jump.

I take the spoon just to show him I can.

The broth is rich and fragrant. The warmth seeps into my bones as I take the first sip. Lucian watches me with that unnerving intensity.

“Why are you here?” I ask once half of the soup is gone.

He leans back in his chair. “You know why.”

I set the spoon down, my appetite gone. “This isn’t healthy, Lucian. You know that, right? Whatever you think is happening between us—it’s not real.”

He tilts his head. “What do you think is happening, Evelyn?”

I swallow hard, the words sticking in my throat. “I think… I think you’re using me to fill some void in your life. And I’m letting you because—” I break off, unable to finish the thought.

“Because?” he prompts.

“Because I’m afraid of what will happen when you’re not there,” I admit quietly.

The confession lifts a weight from my chest, but it doesn’t make the situation any less terrifying.

“When you’re around, I feel… alive. And when you’re not, it’s like I’m just going through the motions. Like I’m a shadow of myself.”

Lucian reaches across the table and takes my hand in his. His fingers are warm and steady. He doesn’t try to comfort me, he just holds my hand with a quiet certainty that makes my chest ache.

“You should finish eating and go to bed. We’ll talk when you’re feeling better.”

I nod weakly, too drained to argue. He releases my hand and stands, moving to the sink to refill my glass. I watch him, the way his shoulders move beneath his suit jacket. Even now, in my tiny, cluttered kitchen, he exudes control.

When he sets the water glass and medicine in front of me, I murmur a quiet, “Thank you.”

The soup helps. The Tylenol he forces down my throat helps more. By the time I finish the last bite, the room has stopped spinning.

Lucian watches me from across the table, his fingers steepled under his chin. “You’re not sleeping.”

“Define sleep.”

His jaw tightens. “You’re killing yourself over paintings that survived centuries without you.”

“They’re not just paintings.” The words come out sharper than I intended. “They’re—”

“History. Legacy.” He leans forward. “You’re no good to them sick, Evelyn.”

The fever blurs his edges. It makes the sunlight catch in his lashes and turns his scowl into something dangerously close to concern.

I mean to stay awake and see him out. But my eyelids grow heavy as he clears the containers, the clink of porcelain lulls me.

The last thing I feel is solid and sure arms lifting me from the chair.

I wake up in my bed, the comforter tucked under my chin. A glass of water and two pills are on the nightstand.

The apartment is silent. Empty.

But the doors are locked.

And on my kitchen counter, beside a freshly brewed pot of tea, lies another sketch of me. This one captures me asleep, my hair fanned out across the pillow, my expression unguarded and peaceful. The lines are soft, almost tender. Beneath it, in his unmistakable handwriting:

Rest, Evelyn. There’s nothing more important than your well-being.