Page 25 of Until She's Mine
I nod weakly, too drained to argue. He releases my hand and stands, moving to the sink to refill my glass. I watch him, the way his shoulders move beneath his suit jacket. Even now, in my tiny, cluttered kitchen, he exudes control.
When he sets the water glass and medicine in front of me, I murmur a quiet, “Thank you.”
The soup helps. The Tylenol he forces down my throat helps more. By the time I finish the last bite, the room has stopped spinning.
Lucian watches me from across the table, his fingers steepled under his chin. “You’re not sleeping.”
“Define sleep.”
His jaw tightens. “You’re killing yourself over paintings that survived centuries without you.”
“They’re not just paintings.” The words come out sharper than I intended. “They’re—”
“History. Legacy.” He leans forward. “You’re no good to them sick, Evelyn.”
The fever blurs his edges. It makes the sunlight catch in his lashes and turns his scowl into something dangerously close to concern.
I mean to stay awake and see him out. But my eyelids grow heavy as he clears the containers, the clink of porcelain lulls me.
The last thing I feel is solid and sure arms lifting me from the chair.
Iwake up in my bed, the comforter tucked under my chin. A glass of water and two pills are on the nightstand.
The apartment is silent. Empty.
But the doors are locked.
And on my kitchen counter, beside a freshly brewed pot of tea, lies another sketch of me. This one captures me asleep, my hair fanned out across the pillow, my expression unguarded andpeaceful. The lines are soft, almost tender. Beneath it, in his unmistakable handwriting:
Rest, Evelyn. There’s nothing more important than your well-being.
Chapter 12
Lucian
Istop at a boutique flower shop on Madison Avenue on my way to the Blackwood estate and select two dozen of the deepest red roses, their petals dark as spilled blood. They are Mother’s favorite, and I always bring them to our monthly lunch.
The Blackwood estate looms before me as I pull into the circular driveway. Today’s gathering will be small—just family, which means Mother, Father, Tobias, and me. Evelyn is not invited. She’s not part of the family yet, despite the ring on her finger. After the wedding, she’ll be expected to attend these lunches, to sit quietly and smile at the right moments, but for now, she’s spared the ordeal. I’m not sure if I’m relieved or disappointed by her absence.
The housekeeper, Marta, greets me at the door. “Mr. Lucian, they’re waiting for you in the dining room.”
I hand her the roses. “For Mother.”
She nods, disappearing to arrange them in Mother’s preferred crystal vase. The sitting room is bathed in soft afternoon light, and the mahogany furniture gleams with polish.
“Lucian, darling.” Mother’s smile brightens. She’s dressed in a dove-gray cashmere dress, pearls at her throat. “The roses are beautiful, as always.”
I lean down to kiss her cheek, breathing in her familiar perfume. “You look lovely, Mother.”
Father stands by the window, his posture rigid as he reviews something on his phone. He doesn’t look up when I enter, but his voice carries across the room. “The Windsor deposition went well. Their CEO folded faster than expected.”
“He was protecting assets he couldn’t afford to lose,” I reply, taking my usual seat across from Mother. “Men like him always have something to hide.”
“No business this afternoon,” Mother chides. “This is family time.”
Last year, Father had a stroke that left him temporarily paralyzed on one side. Although he has mostly recovered, his health remains a constant concern. Mother has taken it upon herself to enforce the rule of not discussing business during these lunches, though Father often finds ways to circumvent her efforts.
The problem is that we don’t have much else to discuss. The Blackwood family operates like a corporation even during leisure hours, our conversations revolving around mergers, acquisitions, and the careful maintenance of our public image. Personal matters are rarely broached, emotions kept locked away behind straight faces and polished smiles.
