Page 28 of Until She’s Mine

Lucian

T he jet’s engines hum softly as I watch Manhattan’s skyline materialize through the fog.

Evelyn sleeps against my shoulder, her breathing deep and even, the weight of her body a familiar anchor after two days in the mountains.

The fading bruises along her collarbone catch the cabin lights.

Violets and yellows bloom across porcelain skin. My marks. My claim.

I let her sleep.

She’s exhausted from christening every surface of the estate, from the library’s leather couch to the kitchen counter.

Her body has been mine to explore, to worship, to love in ways that leave her trembling and breathless.

But it’s more than that. She started looking at me as if I were her salvation and her ruin all at once.

She’s finally starting to see the truth of what I’ve known for years: we were made for each other.

I locate my phone after two days of neglect and power it on.

The screen lights up with a flurry of notifications—missed calls from my father, texts from Tobias, and a few urgent emails from the firm.

I ignore them all. For now, my focus is solely on the woman curled against me.

Her hair spills over my arm, the scent of vanilla still lingering from the bath we shared this morning.

The plane begins its descent, and I brace myself for the chaos waiting on the ground. Tobias won’t let this go quietly, and my father will undoubtedly have something to say about the scandal brewing in the tabloids. But none of that matters as long as Evelyn is by my side.

She stirs as the wheels touch down. Her lashes flutter open to reveal those hazel eyes that have haunted me for years. “We’re here?” she murmurs, her voice thick with sleep.

I brush a strand of hair from her face. “We’re here.”

“Welcome back to the slaughterhouse,” she says, stretching like a cat. The movement pulls her blouse taut across her breasts, revealing the outline of my teeth through the silk.

“Mr. Blackwood?” The flight attendant hovers at the cabin door, her gaze carefully averted from Evelyn’s rumpled blouse. “Your car is ready whenever you are.”

The driver takes her bags without comment. I guide her into the town car, my hand lingering at the small of her back just long enough to feel the minute tremor there. The partition glides up at my nod, giving us privacy as the car pulls away from the tarmac.

Evelyn leans her head against the tinted window and watches as the city blurs past.

Her reflection in the glass shows a woman I barely recognize—softer, more at ease, but with a shadow of unease lurking in her eyes. She’s quiet, her fingers twisting in her lap as the car glides through the bustling streets.

The car turns onto 57th Street, the penthouse’s silhouette cutting a sharp line against the bruised evening sky. I watch her take in the building’s brutalist architecture and the doorman who’s been on my payroll for a decade.

“Move in with me,” I say.

The penthouse has been prepared since the night I first spoke with her—the walk-in closet stocked with her preferred designers’ pieces, the museum-grade humidifier installed for her delicate Renaissance paintings, and the security system upgraded to military standards.

Every detail was orchestrated for the moment when she’d finally come home to me.

Evelyn’s laugh is low and throaty. “Just like that? No negotiations? No contracts?”

The car pulls up to the curb, and the doorman steps forward to open her door, but I hold up a hand, signaling him to wait.

“You already signed the only contract that matters when you said yes to me in the mountains.”

She leans back, her gaze searching mine. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”

“Deadly. We’ve waited long enough, Evelyn. I’m not letting you go back to that life, not when I can give you everything you’ve ever wanted.”

She exhales slowly, her shoulders relaxing as if she’s finally letting go of something she’s been clinging to for too long. “And if I say no?”

I lean closer, my lips brushing against her ear as I whisper, “You won’t.”

Evelyn doesn’t speak for a moment, but when she does, her voice is soft but steady. “Fine.”

“Fine?”

“Yes, I’ll move in with you. I was tired of you showing up at my door unannounced anyway.”

I capture her wrist, pressing a kiss to the delicate skin of her inner pulse point. Her breath hitches, just as it always does when I touch her like she’s the most precious thing I’ve ever held. “You won’t regret it.”

T he elevator ride to the penthouse takes exactly thirty-seven seconds. I count each one by the hitch in Evelyn’s breathing. The doors open directly into the foyer, where the marble floors gleam under the soft glow of recessed lighting.

Evelyn steps over the threshold and turns to me. “Now that I signed my life away, I’d like to see the sketches.”

“You’re making them a bigger deal than they are.” I take her hand and lead her down the hallway, past the grand living room, and into my private study. The air is cooler here, the scent of aged leather and ink filling the space.

The sketches are kept in leather portfolios lining the north wall of the study to avoid the damaging effects of sunlight.

I pull one from the shelf and set it on the desk.

I unclip the brass fastenings and open it, revealing a stack of delicate papers.

Each one is protected by a layer of tracing paper, preserving the fine details of the charcoal and pencil strokes.

Evelyn’s breath catches when she sees the first sketch. It’s one of my earliest—her standing by a window in my parents’ estate, sunlight streaming in and catching the curve of her cheek. Her expression is contemplative, lost in thought.

She doesn’t speak as she lifts the tissue paper aside to reveal the next one—this time, a quick study of her hands, delicate and graceful as they cradle a teacup. Her fingers glide along the edge of the paper.

“I didn’t know you were watching me so closely.”

“I couldn’t help it.”

She flips through more sketches—her laughing at a garden party, her profile outlined by the candlelight, her silhouette against the city skyline as she stands on a balcony. Each one captures a different facet of her, a different moment in time when she was completely herself, unaware of my gaze.

They are more than just drawings. They’re fragments of time, pieces of her I’ve hoarded like a man starving for beauty. Starving for her .

“You can go and plot your world’s domination. I’ll find you when I’m done here,” Evelyn says. She doesn’t look up at me, and I know she’s already lost in the labyrinth of lines and shadows I’ve drawn over the years.

I hesitate, my hand hovering near the doorframe.

“Take your time,” I say, though I’m not sure she hears me. Evelyn’s fingertips brush softly over the paper as if she could step into the sketches and inhabit those moments again and see herself through my eyes.

I leave her to it, stepping out of the study and closing the door behind me.

Evelyn needs this. She needs to see what I’ve seen all along. She needs to know how deeply I’ve studied her, how fiercely she’s imprinted on my soul. That I’ll never let her go.

T wo hours later, Evelyn finds me in my office. Her fingers are stained with charcoal, smudges of grey marking her skin as she climbs into my lap without a word. Her lips find mine, desperate and hungry, and my hands grip her waist, pulling her closer until there’s no space left between us.

Her kiss is urgent, almost frantic, as if she’s trying to climb inside me, to merge our breaths, our heartbeats, our very souls. Now she knows I’ve been dreaming of her long before she ever dreamed of me.

Her hands claw at my shoulders, her nails digging into the fabric of my shirt as she presses herself against me. I can feel the heat of her body through the thin material of her blouse, the way her hips grind against mine in a rhythm that’s now familiar.

She pulls back just enough to whisper against my lips, her voice trembling. “Tell me again.”

I know what she’s asking for. My fingers tighten in her hair, tilting her head back so I can look into her hazel eyes, wide and pleading.

“I love you. You’re mine. I’ll never let you go. Not now, not ever.”

Her pupils dilate, her lips parting on a shuddering exhale.

The city lights paint her body in streaks of gold and shadow as I push her back against the desk, scattering papers and pens in a chaotic cascade.

Later, when she’s sated and pliant beneath me, I press my lips to the fluttering pulse at her throat.

“Welcome home,” I murmur against her skin.

Outside, a storm rolls in over Central Park. The first raindrops hit the windows while I carry her to the bedroom, and tuck us under the heavy silk sheets.

It’s good to be home.