Page 24 of Until She's Mine
Lucian Blackwood stands in the hallway, his suit immaculate despite the rain, water glistening in his dark hair, a paper bag in one hand, and a pharmacy bag in the other.
I swing the door open.
“You,” I croak.
His gaze rakes over my ratty NYC sweatshirt, the mascara smudged under my eyes, and the way I’m clinging to the doorframe like it’s the only thing keeping me upright.
“Obviously.” He holds up the bag. “Chicken pho. The good kind from that place on 54th.”
I should slam the door. But the weight of his eyes on me is too addictive.
It’s nice to be cared for.
“You have nothing better to do than harass sick women?”
“Not particularly.” He nudges past me, his cashmere coat brushing against me. “Lock the door, Evelyn. Unless you want me to do it for you.”
My kitchen isn’t built for men like Lucian. He dwarfs the space, his tailored suit at odds with my chipped mugs and thrift-store plates. I watch from the doorway as he unpacks the food with unsettling precision, arranging the containers just so, testing the soup’s temperature with the tip of his finger.
“You’re not supposed to be here,” I say. The words are weak, a half-hearted protest that neither of us believes. My body betrays me, leaning against the doorframe for support as a wave of dizziness washes over me.
Lucian doesn’t look up from the counter. “And yet, here I am.” He opens the pharmacy bag and sets out a bottle of cold medicine, a pack of tissues, and a box of my favorite tea—peppermint. “You’re in no state to argue.”
But I want to argue. I want to tell him to leave, to remind him of the lines we’ve already crossed and the ones we’re dangerously close to erasing. But the sight of him in my kitchen, so out of place, yet so impossibly right, leaves me speechless.
“Sit.” He pulls out a chair. “Before you fall.”
I try proving him wrong, but my knees buckle the second I take a step.
Lucian catches me before I hit the ground.
For one terrifying second, his hands span my waist, and his breath warms my temple. Then he deposits me in the chair like a misbehaving child.
“Eat.” He pushes the pho toward me. “Or I’ll spoon-feed you.”
The threat shouldn’t make my pulse jump.
I take the spoon just to show him I can.
The broth is rich and fragrant. The warmth seeps into my bones as I take the first sip. Lucian watches me with that unnerving intensity.
“Why are you here?” I ask once half of the soup is gone.
He leans back in his chair. “You know why.”
I set the spoon down, my appetite gone. “This isn’t healthy, Lucian. You know that, right? Whatever you think is happening between us—it’s not real.”
He tilts his head. “What do you think is happening, Evelyn?”
I swallow hard, the words sticking in my throat. “I think… I think you’re using me to fill some void in your life. And I’m letting you because—” I break off, unable to finish the thought.
“Because?” he prompts.
“Because I’m afraid of what will happen when you’re not there,” I admit quietly. The confession lifts a weight from my chest, but it doesn’t make the situation any less terrifying. “When you’re around, I feel… alive. And when you’re not, it’s like I’m just going through the motions. Like I’m a shadow of myself.”
Lucian reaches across the table and takes my hand in his. His fingers are warm and steady. He doesn’t try to comfort me, he just holds my hand with a quiet certainty that makes my chest ache.
“You should finish eating and go to bed. We’ll talk when you’re feeling better.”
