Page 1 of Until She's Mine
Chapter 1
Lucian
I’ve always been good at appearing normal. Polite, if not aloof, charming when necessary, and always, always in control. It’s a mask I’ve perfected over the years, one that fits so seamlessly it almost feels like skin. But beneath the well-tailored suits and the cold smiles, there’s something darker.
Something hungry.
It’s been there for as long as I can remember, coiled tightly in the pit of my stomach, waiting for the right moment to strike. I’ve learned to tame it, to disguise it as ambition and discipline, but it’s there, a restless beast prowling the edges of my restraint.
Lurking. Watching. Growing.
Controlling it requires constant vigilance, a relentless tightening of the leash I keep on myself. My father taught me early on that emotions are a liability, a weakness to be exploited. And so, I’ve become a master of suppression, burying everythingbeneath layers of indifference. But there are moments when the mask slips. Sometimes, it’s by mistake, a slip of the tongue or a flicker of expression that betrays the storm beneath. Other times, it’s deliberate, a reckless indulgence to test the waters and see how far I can push before someone notices. Those are the moments I live for, the ones where I let the beast stretch its claws, if only for a second.
Now is one of those times.
The leather chair groans as I shift my weight, a sound too loud in the sterile quiet of Dr. Whitmore’s office. I cross my ankles—a carefully calculated pose of ease—and consider how much truth to feed her today.
“Tell me why you’re here, Mr. Blackwood.”
Her pen hovers over the notepad, the gold band on her left hand catching the light. Married. Judging by the photos on her desk, she has two children. The framed medals on the wall suggest she might be a runner.
I catalog these details automatically, filing them away for later. Information is always useful, even if its purpose isn’t immediately clear.
“I have an obsession,” I say.
The pen twitches. “With?”
“My brother’s fiancée.”
Dr. Whitmore’s nostrils flare like all moral creatures’ do when scenting something rotten. “You’re aware it is inappropriate.”
“It’d imply I care about the rules.” My thumb strokes the watch beneath my cuff. It’s a Patek Philippe, Father’s gift for passing the Bar. “I cannot help but observe every little detail about her. She is all I see. All I want. Do you know how many times Evelyn touches her throat when she’s nervous? Fourteen. Per hour. Twenty-two, if Tobias is particularly insufferable that day.”
The pen slips from her fingers, rolling across her notepad. I track its path, noting the way the doctor’s breathing shallows.
“I know which wine makes Evelyn’s lips stain redder. In which room she hides when she’s overwhelmed. The exact shade of her blush when she’s caught off guard. I’ve memorized the way her fingers tremble when she’s holding back tears.” My voice drops to a murmur. “Most men fantasize. I catalog.”
“And this doesn’t trouble you?”
“Should it?”
Silence pools between us, thick and viscous.
“It would trouble most people.”
I relax back into the chair. “Then it’s fortunate I’m not most people.”
Her eyes narrow behind her glasses, searching for cracks in my composure. She won’t find any. I’ve had thirty years of practice hiding behind masks—first from Father’s temper, then from opposing counsel, and now from the world at large. All she sees is what I choose to show her—cool, unrepentant certainty.
“Is that why you’re here? To prove you don’t need help?”
“I’m here because my father insisted.”
For such an old-school man, Richard Blackwood clings to modern psychology like a drowning sailor to driftwood. He’s confident that mandatory therapy will prevent burnout among Blackwood & Associates’ lawyers, so every two years, I submit to these sessions, if only to maintain the illusion of compliance.
Dr. Whitmore is not the first therapist I’ve sat across from, and she won’t be the last. They all start the same way: polite, probing, convinced they can unravel me with their carefully crafted questions. And it all ends the same way, too: with them unsettled, their notes incomplete, and me walking out the door with my secrets intact.
“And you do as your father insists?”
