Page 7 of Until She’s Mine

Evelyn

T he café’s wrought-iron chair digs into my thighs as I shift uncomfortably. Across the table, Sophie stirs her matcha latte, her French manicure gleaming under the soft café lighting. The scent of bergamot and steamed milk does little to calm my nerves.

“You’re doing that thing again,” she says without looking up.

“What thing?”

“The thing where you pretend you’re fine while shredding a napkin into confetti.” She nods at my hands. “Wedding stress or Blackwood drama?”

A busboy clatters dishes nearby, and the sudden noise makes me jump. I force my fingers to still, the torn paper scraps scattering across the table like tiny white flags of surrender.

“It’s nothing. The workload at the gallery’s been heavy.”

Sophie’s eyebrow arches. She’s known me since our freshman year at NYU, when we bonded over all-nighters in the painting studios and cheap wine from bodegas.

That eyebrow has called me out on every bad decision, from dating her sculpture professor to getting that ill-advised pixie cut sophomore year.

“Try again, Laurent. And this time, leave out the bullshit.”

A couple at the next table laughs too loudly at something on their phones. I wait until their chatter fades before speaking.

“Lucian gave me a sketch,” I whisper. “Of me. From three years ago.”

Sophie’s spoon clinks sharply against the side of her cup, and her eyes widen. She sets it down slowly. “Wait. Back up. Lucian Blackwood? Your fiancé’s brother? That Lucian?”

I nod.

Lucian has never been a topic of conversation between us.

To Sophie, he is simply Tobias’s older and more intelligent brother, frequently mentioned in business pages and society columns.

She’s never met him, and I choose not to mention him.

Not because I don’t trust her, but because saying his name feels like poking at a wound that shouldn’t be disturbed.

But now, with the sketch burning a hole in my bag for five days, I need to tell someone before I lose my mind completely.

“When did this happen?”

“Last week,” I admit, glancing around to ensure no one is listening.

“He said nothing, just left it there for me to find. It was... from the first time we met.” My fingers find my necklace, Tobias’s engagement gift, and twist the diamond pendant.

“The drawing... Soph, it isn’t just some quick sketch. It’s detailed. Intimate.”

“Intimate how? Like, he drew you naked, or...?”

“No,” I say quickly, my cheeks flushing. “It’s not like that. It’s just... he captured me so precisely. It’s like he’s been watching.”

Am I surprised that he’s been watching? Not really. His eyes follow me at each gathering, cataloging my movements like he’s memorizing me for later study. But seeing it rendered in charcoal and paper, seeing myself through his eyes—that’s different. That’s proof.

“Holy shit.” Sophie sits back, her eyebrows disappearing beneath her bangs. “That’s...”

“Creepy? Disturbing? Completely inappropriate?” I supply, though none of those words capture the way my heart had hammered when I’d seen it, or how I’ve traced those charcoal lines every night since.

“I was going to say kind of hot. In a deeply problematic way.”

“Sophie!”

“What? I’m just saying, the brooding older brother secretly pining for years?

Drawing you in his spare time? That’s some soap opera-level drama right there.

” Sophie’s voice drops, and her eyes dart around the café as if Lucian might materialize from the shadows.

“I’ve heard rumors that Lucian Blackwood is very intense.

People say he’s brilliant but ruthless. And he loves mind games.

Are you sure this isn’t just some twisted power play?

You know, messing with his brother’s fiancée for kicks?

Testing you to see how far he can push?”

“Well, he had three years to do something if that were the case,” I say. “But it’s not just the sketch. It’s the way he looks at me, the things he says.”

“How does he look at you?”

I hesitate, my fingers tightening around the emerald pendant. “Like I’m everything he’s ever wanted.”

Sophie’s breath catches audibly. She leans forward. “Ev, this is crazy. You’re engaged to Tobias. You’re planning a wedding—”

“I know.” The words come out sharper than intended, and I soften my tone. “Trust me, I know exactly how insane this is. That’s why I’m sitting here, drowning in overpriced coffee and pretending my biggest concern is whether to use peonies or roses.”

Sophie reaches across the table, her fingers wrapping around my wrist. “Have you told anyone else about this?”

“Who would I tell? Tobias?” I laugh bitterly. “Hey, honey, your brother’s been sketching me for three years, and I can’t stop thinking about him?”

“Fair point.” Sophie releases my wrist and picks up her latte again. “So what are you going to do?”

“Ignore it.” My voice lacks conviction even to my ears. “Focus on the wedding. Pretend it never happened.”

“Right.” Sophie’s tone suggests she believes that about as much as I do. “Because you’re totally the type to just ignore something like this.”

I open my mouth to protest, but she’s right. I’ve never been good at letting things go, especially when they burrow under my skin the way Lucian has.

“You still have the sketch, don’t you?” Sophie asks knowingly.

Heat creeps up my neck. “That’s not—”

“Oh my God, you do.” She shakes her head. “You need to get rid of it. Burn it. Throw it in the Hudson. Something.”

“I will.” My eyes flicker over her shoulder, and my heart skips a beat. Across the street, a black town car sits at the curb, its tinted windows hiding whoever might be inside. My breath catches, and I tell myself I’m being paranoid.

Not every black car in Manhattan belongs to Lucian.

“Evelyn?” Sophie’s voice pulls me back. “Listen, I’m not judging you. I mean, I am judging you a little bit. But mostly I’m worried. The Blackwoods aren’t exactly known for their healthy family dynamics.”

I force my gaze back to her, but the sensation of being watched prickles along my spine.

I should feel fear. I should feel threatened. Instead, a traitorous heat pools low in my belly.

Because part of me knows.

Knows the tingle between my shoulder blades isn’t paranoia. Knows the ‘coincidental’ museum encounters aren’t accidents. Knows that when I woke at 3 a.m. last Tuesday, a certain someone in my apartment wasn’t just a dream.

“You’re right,” I say. “I’ll get rid of it tonight.”

Sophie studies me, her expression softening.

“Look, I get it. Tobias is... Tobias. He’s charming when he wants to be, but we both know he’s not exactly Prince Charming.

And if Lucian is half as intense in person as he seems on paper.

..” She trails off, shaking her head. “Just be careful, okay? Men like that don’t just draw pretty pictures and pine from afar. They take what they want.”

After that, the conversation shifts to lighter topics—her latest art exhibit, her newest part-time job at the bookshop, and the new restaurant she’s been dying to try—but my attention keeps drifting to that black car, still idling across the street.

The windows remain impenetrable, offering no hint of who might be watching.

When we finally part ways, Sophie gives me a tight hug and a stern look. “Promise me you won’t let this ruin what you have with Tobias without thinking it through.”

“I promise.”

The moment Sophie’s back is turned, my eyes flicker toward the street. The tinted window of the car lowers just enough.

Lucian sits in shadow, his profile carved from marble. Even from this distance, his gaze is like a physical touch. It skims my throat, traces my waist, burning through my clothes.

Our eyes lock.

Time stutters.

The world around me dissolves into a blur of noise and movement, but I am frozen, caught in the gravity of his stare.

My breath hitches, and I can almost hear the low timbre of his voice in my ear, though he hasn’t spoken a word.

He doesn’t need to. That look says everything—possession, promise, a challenge I’m not sure I’m strong enough to resist.

The sunlight catches the sharp angles of his face as he tilts his head slightly, a predator studying its prey. My pulse quickens, and a flush of heat rises to my cheeks despite the chill in the air. The car idles, waiting, daring me to come closer.

But I don’t move. Can’t move.

A cab honks somewhere down the block, and I blink, tearing my gaze away from him, and force myself to walk in the opposite direction.

When I finally risk a glance over my shoulder, I see the town car pulling away from the curb, trailing after me.

Lucian isn’t following me; he could be invisible if he wanted to be.

No, this is deliberate. He wants me to choose him, to admit that I want him, too, but he’s making sure I’m aware of his presence in the meantime. He won’t let me forget about him, not even for a second.

The most unsettling part is that I don’t want him to.

My apartment building looms ahead, a pre-war brownstone that Tobias calls ‘quaint’ in that dismissive way of his. My hands shake as I fumble for my keys in the elevator.

Inside my apartment, I lean against the closed door, my heart racing. The space feels different now—heavier somehow, as if Lucian’s presence has seeped through the walls. I move through the rooms, checking windows, testing locks, and telling myself I’m being ridiculous.

But when I reach my bed, I go rigid.

A single white peony lies on my pillow, its petals perfect and unblemished.

Not a rose. A peony.

Wild. Unpredictable. Real.

My knees weaken, and I sink onto the edge of the bed, the flower trembling in my hands. There’s no note, no explanation needed. The message is clear: he’s been here. In my most private space. And he wants me to know it.

I lift the flower to my face and inhale its sweet scent, my eyes closing as the petals brush against my lips.

The touch is soft and delicate—nothing like the man who left it here.

My fingers trace the stem, finding it freshly cut, the end still damp.

He must have been here recently. Maybe even while I was at the café with Sophie, discussing him like he was some unfortunate stranger and not the ghost haunting every waking moment of my life.

I imagine him moving through my apartment, touching my things, choosing exactly where to leave his mark.

Did he linger? Did he touch anything else? The silk of my nightgown hanging on the bathroom door? The perfume bottles on my vanity?

I promise myself I’ll throw the flower away. Tomorrow.

Tonight, I place it in a crystal vase on my nightstand, where I can see it from my bed.