Page 24 of Until She’s Mine

Evelyn

D awn bleeds across the Adirondacks in streaks of violet and gold.

I press my bare palms against the bedroom window, letting the cold seep into my skin until it burns.

Behind me, the sheets rustle as Lucian stirs.

I don’t turn; he’ll be cataloging my bruises and bite marks from last night’s claiming.

The glass fogs with my breath. I trace a single word in the condensation:

Guilty.

It disappears before Lucian’s arms slide around my waist, his sleep-warm chest pressing against my back. His lips find the sensitive spot beneath my ear where he’d sunk his teeth hours earlier. “You’re thinking too loud.”

I lean into him, watching our reflection warp in the icy glass.

His golden god physique contrasts sharply with my pale, bruised skin, the dark circles under my eyes that no amount of Blackwood money can conceal.

“It’s... it’s beautiful here. But it feels like a dream,” I whisper, my voice barely audible over the crackle of the dying fire in the hearth.

“Like I’ll wake up and none of this will be real. ”

Lucian’s grip tightens, his fingers splaying across my stomach as he pulls me closer. His lips brush against my neck.

“Does this feel real?” His hands drift upward, thumbs brushing the undersides of my breasts.

I tilt my head back against his shoulder, surrendering to his touch. “Yes, but I’m scared, Lucian. Scared of what happens when we leave this place. When reality comes crashing back in.”

His hands still, and he turns me gently to face him. His eyes, usually so sharp and calculating, soften as they meet mine. “You don’t have to be scared. I won’t let anything or anyone hurt you. Not Tobias, not my father, not the world. You’re mine, Evelyn. And I protect what’s mine.”

Then he pulls me back to bed and distracts me with his hands and mouth until the guilt fades.

T he next morning, breakfast is a quiet affair, the clink of silverware against fine china the only sound in the vast dining room.

The private chef has outdone himself—fluffy omelets, fresh fruit, and warm pastries arranged artfully on the table.

Lucian sits across from me, his gaze never straying far, though he doesn’t press me to speak.

He knows I’m still working through something, and for once, he’s giving me the space to do it.

I pick at a croissant, my thoughts still tangled in the haze of last night and his words this morning. The buttery flakes crumble under my fingers, but my appetite remains absent.

“Evelyn.” I look up to find Lucian watching me, his coffee cup poised halfway to his lips. “You’re spiraling.”

“Does that not excite you? The art is in the unraveling.” My fingers tighten around the delicate handle of my teacup. “Isn’t that what you’ve always wanted? To see me come apart?”

Lucian sets his cup down, and the corner of his mouth tilts upward. “I want you to come apart.” His voice is low and velvety. “But not like this. Not because you’re questioning everything. I want you to shatter because you trust me enough to let go.”

I look away, my gaze drifting to the sprawling landscape outside the window.

The snow-covered pines stretch endlessly, their branches laden with frost, and for a second, I imagine what it would be like to disappear into them, to leave behind this life and start anew.

But even as the thought crosses my mind, I know it’s futile.

I don’t want to run anymore.

Not from Lucian.

“Trust,” I say, turning back to him. “That’s the thing, isn’t it? How can I trust you when I don’t even trust myself?”

“You’ve spent your life relying on your own strength, your own control. But you don’t have to do that anymore. Let me carry some of it for you.”

I laugh, but it’s a hollow sound, devoid of humor. “That’s the problem, Lucian. When I let you in, when I let you carry the weight, it feels like I’m losing myself. Like I’m giving up the one thing I’ve always had—my independence.”

He reaches across the table, his hand covering mine. “You’re not losing yourself. Trusting me doesn’t make you weak. It makes you stronger because it means you’re brave enough to let someone else in.”

I look down at his hand on mine, the contrast between his tanned skin and my pale fingers stark in the morning light. His grip is firm, a silent promise that he won’t let go unless I ask him to. And what scares me the most is that part of me doesn’t want him to let go.

“Tell me what you need.” His thumb strokes my knuckles. “Tell me how to make this easier for you. Do you want to go into the town for the day? Or we could stay here, away from everything. Whatever you need, Evelyn, it’s yours.”

My eyes trace the lines of his face: the sharp jaw, the intensity in his gaze, the faint scar above his eyebrow that I’ve always wanted to ask about but never have.

He’s waiting, patient and still, as if he has all the time in the world for me to find my words.

And maybe he does. That’s what makes this so terrifying—knowing that he’s willing to wait forever if that’s what it takes.

“Let’s stay in.”

I cannot stand the thought of being seen, of facing the world outside these walls. Here, in this secluded estate, I can breathe. Here, it’s just us.

Lucian nods.

“Show me more of your sketches,” I ask.

“Unfortunately, most of them are in the city, locked away in my study.” He leans back in his chair, his fingers drumming on the table. “But there’s something else I can show you.”

My curiosity piques, and I tilt my head. “What is it?”

He stands, extending a hand to me. “Come with me.”

I take his hand without hesitation, letting him lead me through the grand house.

We move past the library, past the conservatory filled with lush greenery, until we reach a door at the end of a long hallway.

It’s unremarkable compared to the rest of the estate—plain wood, no intricate carvings or ornate handles—but there’s something about it that feels significant.

Lucian releases my hand to unlock the door with a key he pulls from his pocket. The lock clicks open, and he pushes the door inward, stepping aside to let me enter first.

The room is dimly lit, but as soon as I step inside, I understand why it’s kept locked.

The walls are covered in hundreds of sketches, maybe thousands.

Some are rough and unfinished, quick strokes of charcoal that capture movement and emotion rather than detail.

Others are meticulously rendered, every line deliberate and precise. They are not of me.

“These are from before I met you.”

The sketches are a window into Lucian’s mind, a raw and unfiltered glimpse of the man he was before I entered his life.

There are landscapes—dark, brooding forests and jagged mountain peaks that seem to echo the turmoil in his soul.

There are portraits too, faces etched with pain, longing, and something darker, something I can’t quite name.

Each piece is a fragment of his past, a story waiting to be told.

I step closer to one of the sketches, my fingers hovering over the paper as if afraid to touch it. It’s a self-portrait, but not like any I’ve ever seen. The lines are harsh, almost violent, and the eyes are filled with a haunting emptiness that makes my chest ache.

“This was after my grandmother died,” Lucian says quietly from behind me. “I didn’t know how to process it. So I drew.”

His grandmother—the only person who’d ever truly seen him before me, he’d told me once in a moment of rare openness. Champagne made him talkative that night, and he’d confessed how she used to sneak him art supplies when his father forbade them, calling them frivolous.

“She was the one who taught you to draw?”

He nods, moving to stand beside me. His fingers ghost over another sketch.

This one is of a woman’s hands, weathered but elegant, holding a paintbrush.

“Every Sunday, while my parents attended their society brunches and Tobias played with his toy soldiers, she’d take me to her studio.

Said I had too much darkness in me for a child.

That I needed to learn how to let it out before it consumed me. ”

I study the sketches with a new understanding. The violence in the strokes isn’t anger, it’s grief. The darkness isn’t malevolence, it’s loneliness.

“Did it work?” I ask. “Did drawing help?”

“For a while. Until I realized that no amount of charcoal on paper could fill the void she left behind.” He turns to me then, his eyes holding that same intensity that both thrills and terrifies me. “Until you.”

“You’re obsessed with me.”

The corner of Lucian’s mouth twitches. “Obsessed? No, Evelyn. Obsession is fleeting. It’s a fire that burns hot and then consumes itself. What I feel for you...” His thumb tenderly brushes over my cheekbone. “It’s deeper than that. It’s not obsession—it’s devotion.”

“Devotion,” I echo. “That sounds even more dangerous.”

He chuckles darkly. “It is. Devotion isn’t something you can control or walk away from. It doesn’t fade with time or distance. It’s constant. Unyielding.” His hand slides from my cheek to the nape of my neck, tilting my head back to meet his gaze. “And it’s yours.”

I press my lips against his and murmur, “I want to see my sketches, once we are back in the city. Every single one of them.” My fingers tighten in his shirt as I pull him closer. “I want to see how you’ve seen me, how you’ve captured me when I wasn’t looking.”

Lucian’s hands slide down to grip my hips. “You might not like what you find.”

“I’m not afraid. I want all of it—the good, the bad, the raw. I want to see the parts of me I hide from everyone else.”

I’m afraid he can see how deep the bad parts of me go. I’m afraid he can feel how rotten I am.