Page 15 of Until She’s Mine

Lucian

M y parents are not the nicest people at the best of times, and tonight is far from one of those days.

After the main course, Father sits at the head of the table, his expression carved from stone, while Mother flutters about like a bird of prey, her sharp eyes missing nothing. The absence of Tobias’s easy, brainless chatter leaves a heavy silence in its wake.

Evelyn sits to my left, her posture graceful even as her fingers twist the napkin in her lap.

She’s trying to appear calm, but I can see her pulse beating at the base of her throat, a tiny betrayal of her unease.

It’s fascinating how someone so composed can still be so transparent to me.

Or maybe I’ve learned to read her in ways others haven’t.

Mother begins with her usual barrage of questions, each one laced with subtle barbs meant to test Evelyn’s mettle. “So, Evelyn, how is your work coming along? Tobias mentioned you’re considering leaving the museum to take care of him and your new home after the wedding.”

Evelyn’s smile doesn’t waver, though her fingers tighten around the edge of her napkin. “I haven’t made any decision yet. Art restoration is my passion, and I’d like to continue working.”

I clear my throat. “Mother, how about the cake samples Evelyn brought? I believe it’s waiting for dessert.”

“Ah, yes. Let’s not forget the cake. Marta, if you would?”

Marta nods and disappears into the kitchen, returning with the cake boxes on a silver tray. The tension in the room shifts, a temporary reprieve from Mother’s probing questions. Evelyn exhales softly, and her shoulders relax.

The conversation turns lighter, almost pleasant, as my parents dissect each flavor with the precision of a courtroom cross-examination.

Mother’s tone is sweet, but her words are laced with judgment. “The raspberry is… interesting,” she says, her lips pursed in that way that means she’s already dismissed it. “Though I think the vanilla is more traditional. Classic.”

Evelyn nods politely, but I know that we lost her.

Her gaze drifts to the window, where the sun is beginning to set, casting a golden hue over the estate’s gardens.

I let her drift, content to observe her from the corner of my eye.

There’s a quiet defiance in the way she doesn’t engage, a subtle rebellion against my mother’s attempts to mold her into the perfect Blackwood bride.

Once all flavors have been sampled and dissected, my parents decide on the vanilla, though it’s clear the choice is more about maintaining appearances than any genuine preference.

The clock on the mantel chimes softly, marking the hour, and I notice Evelyn glance at it almost imperceptibly.

She’s eager to leave, though she’s too polite to show it.

As Marta clears the dessert plates, I stand and offer my hand to Evelyn. “Let me show you around before you go. After all, it’s going to be your home soon enough.”

She hesitates for a fraction of a second before rising. The desire to run away from my parents’ company seems to outweigh her caution. “I’d like that.”

Mother’s eyes narrow, but she doesn’t object. Father’s attention remains fixed on his glass of brandy.

I guide Evelyn out of the dining room and into the dimly lit hallway.

The house feels different with her in it, less like a mausoleum and more alive, her quiet energy seeping into the walls, breathing warmth into the cold, polished surfaces.

I lead her toward the east wing, away from the prying eyes of my parents, and toward the library.

It’s a place I’ve always found sanctuary in, and I wonder if she’ll feel the same.

The heavy oak door creaks softly as I push it open, revealing the rows of towering bookshelves and the faint scent of aged paper and leather.

Evelyn steps inside, her eyes widening as she takes in the sheer scale of the collection. Her fingers trail lightly over the spines of the books as she moves. I watch her quietly, noting how her lips part in silent awe and her breath catches when she spots a particularly rare edition.

“You’re welcome to borrow anything you’d like.”

“Are you trying to seduce me with books and art?”

“Would it work?”

Her cheeks flush with a color that rivals the raspberry cake my mother so casually dismissed earlier. She clears her throat. “You don’t have to try that hard,” she says, not looking at me. “I’m already here, aren’t I?”

“I like going the extra mile.”

Evelyn laughs. “That I know.”

I step into her space and lift an eyebrow. “Are you making fun of me?”

“A little.” She blinks as if surprised by her own boldness, and the urge to close the last inches between us is almost irresistible. “You said you’ll share the estate’s secrets.”

I grin. “Did you know this house has secret passageways?” I gesture toward the far wall, lined with shelves of legal tomes. “This wing was built during Prohibition, when the Blackwood patriarch at the time decided he’d rather drink in private than give up his whisky. You see these six bookshelves?”

She nods.

“Touch the bottom of The Art of War .” Evelyn gives me a dubious look, but does as instructed.

There’s a barely audible click. “Now push the shelf to the left.” It glides sideways, revealing a shadowed corridor no wider than the shelf itself.

The air is cool and musty, permeated with the earthy sweetness of ancient wood.

She steps forward, her fingers brushing the edge of the hidden door.

“This way.” The corridor is just big enough for a single person, which means she’s leading and I am following, my hand steady at her back.

The corridor opens into two passageways: one leading further into the wine cellars and the other up a narrow staircase to the garden.

“Where to?” I ask.

Her eyes glitter in the low light. “Up.”

“Excellent choice.” I guide her up the creaking stairs.

At the landing, I thumb another hidden release, and a panel in the wall lets out onto the balcony above the garden.

Afternoon has faded to full evening. Evelyn steps out first, taking in the rows of hedges trimmed to geometric shapes, fountains gushing silver under the setting sun.

“You spent a lot of time alone as a kid, didn’t you?”

“I used to come here to escape family dinners,” I admit. “No one ever found me, not even the cleaning staff. Tobias called it my villain lair.”

“It doesn’t look very villainous to me.” She turns away from the garden and leans back against the railing, her head tilted. “You’re just misunderstood.”

I smirk, stepping closer. “That’s what they say about every villain.”

“Perhaps.” She tugs her cardigan tighter. “Or you’re just better at hiding your softer side.”

I brace my hands on the railing, caging her between my arms. The proximity crackles. “What side is that?”

“The side that buys roses for your mother every time you visit. The side that makes sure I eat when I’m sick.” She bites her lower lip, hard enough to leave a mark. “There are a million beautiful, Ivy League women at your parents’ parties every week. Why fixate on me? I’m engaged to your brother.”

“You’re not married to him.”

“That isn’t the point.”

I press my forehead to hers. “You deserve to be chosen,” I say softly. “Not settled for. Not collected like a trophy. But you have to choose yourself first. Stop waiting for Tobias to see you, to value you. He never will, Evelyn.”

“Why should I trust you?” Her voice trembles. “You’re just as dangerous as he is, Lucian. Maybe more.”

“The first time I saw you, you were in your NYU sweatshirt and a pair of jeans so worn they were almost white at the knees. You were sitting on the steps outside the library, your hair piled up in a messy bun, a sketchbook balanced on your lap. You didn’t see me.

” My thumb brushes against her cheekbone, and her breath hitches.

“You were drawing the skyline, and you had this look of absolute concentration on your face. Like nothing else in the world existed except what you were creating. And I thought, ‘That’s it. That’s her. ’ ”

Her eyes are wide now, searching mine for truth and reassurance.

I give her my honesty. “I didn’t know your name then.

I didn’t know anything about you except that you had a way of seeing the world that made me want to see it too.

And then, when I finally met you, it was like I already knew you.

Like I’d been waiting for you my whole life. ”

At first, it might have been a crush. A dream of a woman who could make me better, kinder. But then, I witnessed Evelyn’s dark side and knew she was everything I never knew I needed.

She shakes her head. “It was before I met Tobias.”

There is conflict in her eyes. She tries to reconcile the past with this moment, with me.

Her fingers curl into the fabric of my shirt, holding me there, her breath shallow and uneven. “Why didn’t you say something?” she whispers, her voice breaking. “Why didn’t you tell me then?”

I exhale slowly, my grip on the railing tightening. “Because Tobias got there first. And because I thought… I thought you were happy.” My voice grows quieter. “Then I saw that you’re not, but I knew if I pushed too soon, you’d run.”

“And now? Do you think I’m ready now?”

I tilt her chin up gently, forcing her to meet my eyes. “That’s not for me to decide. But I think you’re starting to see what I’ve seen all along. That you deserve more than a life half-lived, more than a love that doesn’t burn as brightly as you do.”

Evelyn’s breath shudders as she slowly and tentatively lifts her arms and wraps them around my neck, her fingers tangling in the hair at my nape. Her body presses against mine, and I feel the rapid flutter of her heartbeat, a mirror to my own.

She exhales, a soft, trembling sound. “Do you really believe that? Or is this just another game to you?”

My hands slide down to her waist, anchoring her to me. “We’ve wasted enough time already. I’m not playing games anymore, Evelyn. Not with you.”

Perhaps with circumstances, but never with her.

I want her to choose me, to want me. Not to feel obligated or trapped.

Her lashes flutter as she processes this, and then she presses a kiss to my chest, just above the place where my heart hammers against my ribs.

It’s soft, almost hesitant, but it burns through me like a brand.

I feel the heat of her lips through my shirt, and it takes every ounce of control I have not to crush her to me, not to claim her mouth with the hunger that has been building inside me for years.

But I wait. I let her set the pace, let her decide how far this goes.

She steps back and says, “I need to think.”

I don’t stop her, though every fiber of my being screams to pull her back, to keep her close. Instead, I let my hands fall to my sides, my fingers curling into loose fists as I watch her retreat back into the shadows of the library.

The spot on my chest where her lips met my shirt still burns.