Page 22 of Until She's Mine
And maybe he has.
The thought sends a fresh wave of heat through me, blurring the edges of right and wrong until all that matters is the solid feel of him beneath my hands, the intensity of his kiss, the way he murmurs my name against my lips like a prayer or a curse.
This is madness.
It’s self-destruction wrapped in velvet and sin, and I’m diving headfirst into it.
His mouth leaves mine, trailing fire along my jaw, down the sensitive column of my throat. I arch into him, my head falling back, exposing the pulse point where his thumb had rested seconds before. He pauses there, his breath hot against my skin, and I feel the faint vibration of a low growl in his chest.
It’s possessive, territorial, and utterly thrilling.
“Lucian,” I whisper, lost in the rush of blood in my ears.
Lucian’s hands tighten on my hips, his grip firm enough to ground me but not enough to hurt. He presses his forehead against mine. His eyes are dark pits, reflecting the firelight and threatening to consume me.
“You’re not a fool, Evelyn,” he murmurs. “You know what this is. You’ve always known.”
I do know.
I’ve known since the first time our eyes met across that terrace at the Blackwood estate, when his gaze lingered a moment too long and sent a shiver down my spine. I’ve known through every stolen glance, every careful conversation, every time my pulse quickened when he entered a room. I’ve known, even as I’ve tried to deny it to myself all these years.
“This can’t happen again,” I say instead.
A moment of weakness is understandable, but staying would be something else entirely.
After all, nothing will change.
I’ll return to my life, to Tobias, to the carefully constructed facade I’ve built to survive in this world. Lucian’s presence is a wildfire, and though it’s captivating, I know better than to let it consume me entirely.
“Can’t it?” He raises an eyebrow. “Or won’t you let it?” He doesn’t wait for an answer. He picks up his glass, swirling the remaining whiskey. “You came here tonight knowing what might happen, Evelyn. Don’t pretend otherwise.”
Some part of me had craved this confrontation, this spark, this dangerous dance along the edge of propriety. I had come seeking something. Confirmation, perhaps? Absolution? Or maybe just the undeniable truth that I was suffocating in the life I had chosen.
Lucian sees the conflict warring within me, the fear battling desire. He sees the cracks in my mask, and instead of offering comfort, he seems poised to shatter it completely.
“You can run, Evelyn,” he says softly. “But you can’t hide. Not from me. Not from this. Every time he touches you, every time you’ll have to kiss him and lie beside him, you’ll think of me. You’ll remember this moment, this fire, and you’ll know it’s not enough. It will never be enough.”
His words hang in the air, heavy and final. He doesn’t touch me again, doesn’t need to. He’s already branded me, claimed a part of me that Tobias will never know existed.
I stand up on unsteady legs, the alcohol and the intensity of the encounter leaving me feeling dizzy, disoriented. I retrieve my glove, the smooth silk cool against my clammy palms. I don’t look at him as I turn towards the door, afraid of what I might see in his eyes, or what he might see in mine.
The walk back through the silent corridors seems longer this time, each step echoing the turmoil in my soul. When I emerge onto the street, the cool night air is a shock against my heated skin. A black town car pulls up silently beside me, the same one from the café. The back door opens.
I hesitate for only a heartbeat before sliding inside. As the car pulls away from the curb, I lean my head back against the cool leather, closing my eyes.
My apartment is dark and empty. Tobias’s note on the fridge—Out of town. New dresses are in your closet. Wear the blue one for soirée—flutters to the floor as I pour water with unsteady hands. The mirror shows a stranger: lips bitten red, hair escaping its pins, eyes drunk on something stronger than whiskey.
The shower runs cold but does nothing to erase the memory of his breath on my skin, the way his pupils swallowed the grey when I licked whiskey from my bottom lip.
I press my forehead to the fogged glass.
The worst part isn’t that I kissed him back. It’s that I’m already counting the hours until I see him again.
The next morning, the package arrives at the museum with no return address. Inside is a first edition of Baroque Restoration Techniques, the book I’d mentioned wanting to read last night.
On the first page, there’s a single underlined passage:
The truest art is often hidden beneath layers of pretense.
