Page 29 of Until She's Mine
The conversation turns lighter, almost pleasant, as my parents dissect each flavor with the precision of a courtroom cross-examination.
Mother’s tone is sweet, but her words are laced with judgment. “The raspberry is… interesting,” she says, her lips pursed in that way that means she’s already dismissed it. “Though I think the vanilla is more traditional. Classic.”
Evelyn nods politely, but I know that we lost her. Her gaze drifts to the window, where the sun is beginning to set, casting a golden hue over the estate’s gardens. I let her drift, content to observe her from the corner of my eye. There’s a quiet defiance in the way she doesn’t engage, a subtle rebellion against my mother’s attempts to mold her into the perfect Blackwood bride.
Once all flavors have been sampled and dissected, my parents decide on the vanilla, though it’s clear the choice is more about maintaining appearances than any genuine preference. The clock on the mantel chimes softly, marking the hour, and I notice Evelyn glance at it almost imperceptibly. She’s eager to leave, though she’s too polite to show it.
As Marta clears the dessert plates, I stand and offer my hand to Evelyn. “Let me show you around before you go. After all, it’s going to be your home soon enough.”
She hesitates for a fraction of a second before rising. The desire to run away from my parents’ company seems to outweigh her caution. “I’d like that.”
Mother’s eyes narrow, but she doesn’t object. Father’s attention remains fixed on his glass of brandy.
I guide Evelyn out of the dining room and into the dimly lit hallway. The house feels different with her in it, less like a mausoleum and more alive, her quiet energy seeping into the walls, breathing warmth into the cold, polished surfaces. I lead her toward the east wing, away from the prying eyes of my parents, and toward the library. It’s a place I’ve always found sanctuary in, and I wonder if she’ll feel the same. The heavy oak door creaks softly as I push it open, revealing the rows of towering bookshelves and the faint scent of aged paper and leather.
Evelyn steps inside, her eyes widening as she takes in the sheer scale of the collection. Her fingers trail lightly over the spines of the books as she moves. I watch her quietly, noting how her lips part in silent awe and her breath catches when she spots a particularly rare edition.
“You’re welcome to borrow anything you’d like.”
“Are you trying to seduce me with books and art?”
“Would it work?”
Her cheeks flush with a color that rivals the raspberry cake my mother so casually dismissed earlier. She clears her throat. “You don’t have to try that hard,” she says, not looking at me. “I’m already here, aren’t I?”
“I like going the extra mile.”
Evelyn laughs. “That I know.”
I step into her space and lift an eyebrow. “Are you making fun of me?”
“A little.” She blinks as if surprised by her own boldness, and the urge to close the last inches between us is almost irresistible. “You said you’ll share the estate’s secrets.”
I grin. “Did you know this house has secret passageways?” I gesture toward the far wall, lined with shelves of legal tomes. “This wing was built during Prohibition, when the Blackwood patriarch at the time decided he’d rather drink in private than give up his whisky. You see these six bookshelves?”
She nods.
“Touch the bottom ofThe Art of War.” Evelyn gives me a dubious look, but does as instructed. There’s a barely audible click. “Now push the shelf to the left.” It glides sideways, revealing a shadowed corridor no wider than the shelf itself. The air is cool and musty, permeated with the earthy sweetness of ancient wood. She steps forward, her fingers brushing the edge of the hidden door. “This way.” The corridor is just big enough for a single person, which means she’s leading and I am following, my hand steady at her back.
The corridor opens into two passageways: one leading further into the wine cellars and the other up a narrow staircase to the garden.
“Where to?” I ask.
Her eyes glitter in the low light. “Up.”
“Excellent choice.” I guide her up the creaking stairs. At the landing, I thumb another hidden release, and a panel in the wall lets out onto the balcony above the garden. Afternoon has faded to full evening. Evelyn steps out first, taking in the rows of hedges trimmed to geometric shapes, fountains gushing silver under the setting sun.
“You spent a lot of time alone as a kid, didn’t you?”
“I used to come here to escape family dinners,” I admit. “No one ever found me, not even the cleaning staff. Tobias called it my villain lair.”
“It doesn’t look very villainous to me.” She turns away from the garden and leans back against the railing, her head tilted. “You’re just misunderstood.”
I smirk, stepping closer. “That’s what they say about every villain.”
“Perhaps.” She tugs her cardigan tighter. “Or you’re just better at hiding your softer side.”
I brace my hands on the railing, caging her between my arms. The proximity crackles. “What side is that?”
