Page 3 of Until She's Mine
The museum’s silent auction party is in full swing by the time I arrive, the air thick with the murmur of well-heeled conversation. The ballroom glows with the soft light of chandeliers, their crystals refracting lights that dance across the walls. I scan the room, cutting through the sea of tuxedos and evening gowns until my eyes land onher.
Evelyn Laurent is impossible to miss, even in a room this crowded.
She stands near the painting she’d restored, her gloved hands moving passionately as she explains pigment degradation to some slack-jawed heir. The lights turn her champagne silk dress into liquid gold, clinging to every forbidden curve.
I catalog each detail with the precision of a forensic examiner: the way Evelyn tucks a loose curl behind her left ear—always the left—when concentrating, how her hazel eyes darken from sageto burnt amber when discussing art restoration, and that faint indentation between her brows when someone mispronouncessfumato.
Her laughter rings out, clear and bright, as the heir makes some clumsy attempt at a joke. It’s the polite laugh, the one she uses when she’s being kind but not truly amused. I know the difference. I’ve memorized every variation of her laughter, every subtle shift in tone that reveals what she’s really feeling. This one is surface-level, a courtesy to a man who doesn’t deserve it.
I force myself to remain still, not to cross the room and pull her away from him. Instead, I take a glass of champagne from a passing waiter and focus on exchanging nods and polite smiles with those vying for my attention.
I’m halfway through my obligatory round of small talk when Tobias stumbles in, 43 minutes late. My younger brother adjusts his crooked tie with that infuriating, careless charm that’s gotten him through life unscathed.
“Evelyn!” His voice crashes through the low hum of cultured conversation like a bulldozer through a rose garden. Heads turn. My jaw tightens.
“Lucian?” The mayor’s wife’s voice pulls me back.
“Forgive me.” I offer her a charming smile. “Duty calls.”
I leave her without waiting for a response, my gaze fixed on the other side of the room. Evelyn’s spine goes rigid a full second before Tobias drapes an arm around her shoulders, his signet ring glinting against her bare skin.Mine, the Blackwood crest seems to declare. The lie of it burns like acid in my throat.
“Brother,” Tobias greets me with a grin that’s all teeth and no warmth. His breath carries the faint tang of whiskey, and I don’t miss the way Evelyn’s smile tightens at the edges. She’s too polite to pull away, but her fingers twitch at her side, betraying her discomfort.
“Tobias.” I smile. “I was beginning to think you’d forgotten the event.”
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world. Evelyn’s been working on this piece for months. I had to see it in person.”
His hand slides down her arm, possessive and careless, and I feel the beast inside me stir. It takes every ounce of control to keep my expression neutral, not reach out and break his fingers one by one.
“It’s stunning,” I say, my eyes shifting to Evelyn. “Your work is always impeccable.”
Her cheeks flush that delicate shade of rose I’ve come to crave. “Thank you, Lucian. That means a lot coming from you.”
Evelyn’s voice is smooth like smoke and sweet like honey. It slips through the air, wrapping around me and making my chest tighten. I want to bottle the sound of my name on her lips and play it on repeat until it’s the only thing I hear.
“Your lecture on Veronese’s lost pigments last week was illuminating as well,” I continue.
Her breath hitches. She hadn’t seen me in that audience.
Tobias barks a laugh. “Lucian, always the scholar.” He plucks a canapé from a passing tray, crumbs dusting his lapel. “But let’s not bore everyone with art history, shall we? This is a party.”
Evelyn’s smile falters, and her fingers flutter to her throat—a nervous tic—but her voice remains steady. “Well, it’s an art auction. And besides, I find restoration endlessly fascinating.”
“You two are hopeless,” Tobias says and leans in for a crumb-laden kiss on her cheek. “I’ll leave you to it. Talk about dead Italians. There’s a bar full of scotch with my name on it. Don’t let Lucian bore you to death, Evie.”
He swaggers away, leaving Evelyn and me all alone in the middle of the crowded room. Evelyn’s gaze drops to her hands, her fingers fidgeting with the delicate fabric of her gloves. Itake a half step closer, just enough to invade her space without drawing attention from the crowd.
“Do I truly bore you?”
Her eyes flick up to meet mine, that familiar indentation forming between her brows. “No. You never bore me.”
“Good. I’d hate to think my interest was one-sided.”
Her lips part, but no words come out. She glances toward the bar where Tobias is already deep in conversation with a group of socialites, his laughter carrying across the room. The tension in her shoulders softens, as though his absence grants her a moment of reprieve.
“How have you been, Lucian?”
“Busy. Though not too busy for Veronese.”
