Page 2 of Until She’s Mine

Lucian

T he museum’s silent auction party is in full swing by the time I arrive, the air thick with the murmur of well-heeled conversation.

The ballroom glows with the soft light of chandeliers, their crystals refracting lights that dance across the walls.

I scan the room, cutting through the sea of tuxedos and evening gowns until my eyes land on her .

Evelyn Laurent is impossible to miss, even in a room this crowded.

She stands near the painting she’d restored, her gloved hands moving passionately as she explains pigment degradation to some slack-jawed heir. The lights turn her champagne silk dress into liquid gold, clinging to every forbidden curve.

I catalog each detail with the precision of a forensic examiner: the way Evelyn tucks a loose curl behind her left ear— always the left —when concentrating, how her hazel eyes darken from sage to burnt amber when discussing art restoration, and that faint indentation between her brows when someone mispronounces sfumato.

Her laughter rings out, clear and bright, as the heir makes some clumsy attempt at a joke.

It’s the polite laugh, the one she uses when she’s being kind but not truly amused.

I know the difference. I’ve memorized every variation of her laughter, every subtle shift in tone that reveals what she’s really feeling.

This one is surface-level, a courtesy to a man who doesn’t deserve it.

I force myself to remain still, not to cross the room and pull her away from him. Instead, I take a glass of champagne from a passing waiter and focus on exchanging nods and polite smiles with those vying for my attention.

I’m halfway through my obligatory round of small talk when Tobias stumbles in, 43 minutes late. My younger brother adjusts his crooked tie with that infuriating, careless charm that’s gotten him through life unscathed.

“Evelyn!” His voice crashes through the low hum of cultured conversation like a bulldozer through a rose garden. Heads turn. My jaw tightens.

“Lucian?” The mayor’s wife’s voice pulls me back.

“Forgive me.” I offer her a charming smile. “Duty calls.”

I leave her without waiting for a response, my gaze fixed on the other side of the room.

Evelyn’s spine goes rigid a full second before Tobias drapes an arm around her shoulders, his signet ring glinting against her bare skin.

Mine , the Blackwood crest seems to declare.

The lie of it burns like acid in my throat.

“Brother,” Tobias greets me with a grin that’s all teeth and no warmth. His breath carries the faint tang of whiskey, and I don’t miss the way Evelyn’s smile tightens at the edges. She’s too polite to pull away, but her fingers twitch at her side, betraying her discomfort.

“Tobias.” I smile. “I was beginning to think you’d forgotten the event.”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world. Evelyn’s been working on this piece for months. I had to see it in person.”

His hand slides down her arm, possessive and careless, and I feel the beast inside me stir. It takes every ounce of control to keep my expression neutral, not reach out and break his fingers one by one.

“It’s stunning,” I say, my eyes shifting to Evelyn. “Your work is always impeccable.”

Her cheeks flush that delicate shade of rose I’ve come to crave. “Thank you, Lucian. That means a lot coming from you.”

Evelyn’s voice is smooth like smoke and sweet like honey. It slips through the air, wrapping around me and making my chest tighten. I want to bottle the sound of my name on her lips and play it on repeat until it’s the only thing I hear.

“Your lecture on Veronese’s lost pigments last week was illuminating as well,” I continue.

Her breath hitches. She hadn’t seen me in that audience.

Tobias barks a laugh. “Lucian, always the scholar.” He plucks a canapé from a passing tray, crumbs dusting his lapel. “But let’s not bore everyone with art history, shall we? This is a party.”

Evelyn’s smile falters, and her fingers flutter to her throat—a nervous tic—but her voice remains steady. “Well, it’s an art auction. And besides, I find restoration endlessly fascinating.”

“You two are hopeless,” Tobias says and leans in for a crumb-laden kiss on her cheek. “I’ll leave you to it. Talk about dead Italians. There’s a bar full of scotch with my name on it. Don’t let Lucian bore you to death, Evie.”

He swaggers away, leaving Evelyn and me all alone in the middle of the crowded room. Evelyn’s gaze drops to her hands, her fingers fidgeting with the delicate fabric of her gloves. I take a half step closer, just enough to invade her space without drawing attention from the crowd.

“Do I truly bore you?”

Her eyes flick up to meet mine, that familiar indentation forming between her brows. “No. You never bore me.”

“Good. I’d hate to think my interest was one-sided.”

Her lips part, but no words come out. She glances toward the bar where Tobias is already deep in conversation with a group of socialites, his laughter carrying across the room. The tension in her shoulders softens, as though his absence grants her a moment of reprieve.

“How have you been, Lucian?”

“Busy. Though not too busy for Veronese.”

“I didn’t see you.”

“You weren’t meant to.”

Evelyn’s eyelashes flutter—another detail instantly committed to memory—and she turns her attention back to the painting.

“I should go,” she says after a pause, though she makes no move to leave. “Management wants us to mingle with potential buyers to encourage bids.”

“Stay.” The word slips out before I can dress it in subtler language, rawer than I’d intended. “Sell me your favorite piece of the collection.”

“Are you serious?”

“I’m always serious.” My voice drops to a low murmur that only she can hear. “Tell me which one speaks to you the most.”

Her gaze flickers to the painting she’d restored, then back to me.

“That one. It’s by an unknown artist from 16th-century Italy, depicting a mother and daughter.

You can almost feel the tenderness in the way the mother’s hand cradles her daughter’s face.

It’s like the artist captured a moment of pure love, frozen in time.

It’s not the most valuable piece here, but it’s my favorite. ”

The painting is a modest piece compared to the others in the room, its muted colors and unassuming frame easily overlooked by the glittering crowd.

My shoulder brushes against her as I study the painting. The mother’s hand on her daughter’s cheek is indeed tender, but there’s something else—a shadow in the background, a faint suggestion of something darker lurking beyond the frame.

“You see it too, don’t you?” Evelyn says, her breath warm against my ear. “The artist not only painted love. He painted the fear of losing it.”

Her words send a shiver down my spine. She sees what others miss, the layers beneath the surface. It’s why she’s so good at what she does—and why she’s so dangerous to me. She doesn’t just restore art; she uncovers its soul.

I turn to her. “Why this one?”

Her lips part, then close, as if weighing how much to reveal. “It reminds me of my mother,” she admits softly.

Evelyn’s mother passed away four years ago.

A year before she met Tobias and me. I know that without her mother’s death, Evelyn would never have crossed paths with the Blackwoods.

Sometimes I wonder if she would have been better off staying in her world, untouched by the shadows that cling to mine.

But the thought is fleeting. I don’t dwell on what-ifs. I focus on what is and what will be.

“Consider it sold.”

Someday, everything I own will belong to her, too, including this painting.

She blinks, startled. “Lucian, you don’t have to do that.”

“I want to,” I say simply. “Now, I’ve heard rumors that you’ll be working on a new restoration project. The Caravaggio, isn’t it?”

Her eyes widen. “Who told you that?”

“I have my sources. It’s an ambitious project.”

“Of course, you do.” She smiles and tucks a curl behind her ear. “It’s true, though. The Caravaggio would be one of the most challenging pieces I’ve ever taken on. The damage is extensive, but the potential is huge. If I can restore it properly, it’ll be like giving it a second life.

“You’re more than capable of handling it.”

“You sound sure.”

“I am.”

The noise of the party fades into a dull hum. Evelyn’s fingers brush against my sleeve—accidental or intentional, I can’t tell—and the contact sends a shiver through me.

“Well, the piece is under dispute, so it might not happen. Even if it does, Marcus is my supervisor, and he might want to take the lead on it.”

I smile. “We’ll see.”

We continue to speak of art restorations and gallery politics—neutral topics turned intimate by proximity and unsaid words.

Her laugh, soft and melodic, escapes as she recounts a mishap at the gallery last week.

I savor the sound, storing it away like a priceless artifact.

Her lips curve, and the faint dimple appears on her left cheek—these are details Tobias has never noticed, never cared to notice.

A server rushes past, nearly colliding with her, sending her stumbling into my arms.

I catch her, my hands firm on her waist as she steadies herself.

Evelyn’s breath hitches, and her eyes lock onto mine.

A dozen different emotions flicker across her face, but I catch the ones that matter: surprise, confusion, and desire.

She quickly steps back, smoothing her dress with trembling hands, her cheeks flushed.

But now I know that my years of waiting haven’t been in vain. There is a spark in her eyes, buried beneath propriety and loyalty to a man who doesn’t deserve her. It’s faint, but it’s real. And I will fan it into a flame.

She’s ready.

“Are you alright?” I ask, my voice low and calm, though my pulse races.

“Yes.” Her gaze darts away. “Just clumsy.”

“I’ve never known you to be anything but graceful.”

Her blush deepens. I want to reach out and trace the line of her jaw, to feel the warmth of her skin beneath my fingertips. But I don’t.

Not yet.

The game requires patience, and I’ve waited this long. A few more weeks won’t kill me.

“Are you going to your parents’ dinner party tomorrow?” Her voice is steadier now, though her fingers fidget with the edge of her glove.

“I wouldn’t miss it.”

Evelyn despises those biweekly dinners. She’s told me as much in the quiet moments we’ve stolen over the years, though never in so many words.

Her shoulders stiffen when Tobias brings them up, and her smile falters when she’s forced to make small talk with our parents.

But she’ll be there tomorrow, of course.

She always is. Duty, after all, is a chain she wears as gracefully as her silk gowns.

“Good.” Her expression is layered with relief, and something deeper that I allow myself to hope is longing until Tobias appears at her side again, with a drink in hand.

His arrival shatters our fragile bubble. She takes Tobias’ arm without as much as a word, but not before I catch the guilty flicker of her eyes back to mine.

“I’ll steal my lovely fiancée back now,” Tobias says with that insufferable grin, the one that makes me want to shatter his perfect teeth. “You don’t mind, do you, brother?”

Evelyn murmurs something to Tobias, but I don’t catch it. All I see is the way her hand trembles on his arm and how her smile doesn’t reach her eyes.

Tobias leads her away like she’s just another acquisition, oblivious to her glove slipping from her hand and falling to the floor between us. Evelyn tries to bend to retrieve it, but my brother tugs her forward, too absorbed in his own chatter to notice.

I wait until they’re out of sight before retrieving it with a reverence that borders on sacrilege—the scent of lavender clinging to silk—and let the faintest trace of my smile linger as I tuck her glove into my pocket.

Now, I have the painting to buy.