Page 31 of Until She's Mine
I wake up with a gasp, my body clenched around nothing.
Moonlight stripes the bedroom through half-closed blinds. The clock reads 2:17 a.m. My nightgown sticks to my lower back, the sheets tangled between my thighs.
I press my shaking fingers to my lips. They tingle as if still bruised from imaginary kisses.
My phone lights up on the nightstand, casting a faint glow across the room. I reach for it instinctively, my fingers trembling as I unlock the screen. A few photos from Tobias appear: selfies from the Lockwood yacht party, mostly showing him with his arm around a blonde’s waist. Nothing from Lucian.
I slip out of bed, my body still throbbing with the dream’s aftershocks. The bathroom faucet runs icy cold. I splash water on my face, but it does nothing to erase the sensation of Lucian’s hands, his mouth, the way he saiddrippingwith such possessive certainty.
The mirror shows a stranger: pupils blown wide, collarbones flushed pink, the ghost of his teeth marks blooming on my neck. I press two fingers to the pulse point beneath my jaw.
Lucian is probably awake right now in his bachelor penthouse, I’ve yet to visit, a glass of whiskey dangling from his long fingers. Watching the city lights. Thinking of me.
The thought sends a fresh wave of heat between my legs.
I turn the shower to cold and step under the spray fully clothed. The silk nightgown turns translucent, clinging to mycurves. Water drips from my lashes like tears as I finally slide my hand between my thighs.
It takes three strokes before I come with a soundless cry, my forehead pressed to the tiled wall. Lucian’s name burns behind my clenched teeth.
When I return to bed, my body is still humming, but my mind is a storm, tossing between the heat of the dream and the cold reality of what it means. Lucian isn’t just a figment, a fantasy I can tuck away in the dark hours of the night. He’s real, bone and blood and fire, and he’s been watching me, waiting for me, with patience that terrifies me.
I reach for my phone again, my thumb hovering over his contact. His name stares back at me, stark against the glow of the screen. One message. That’s all it would take. One word, and he’d be here, in my room, in my bed, in my life.
The thought makes my breath catch.
But I don’t send it.
“Damn you,” I whisper to the darkness.
Chapter 16
Evelyn
Another day, another party.
The Hamptons estate sprawls before me like something from a magazine spread—all white columns and manicured gardens that probably cost more than most people’s houses. Cars worth small fortunes line the circular drive as valets in crisp uniforms dart between them like well-trained soldiers.
The Lockwoods’ spring soirée is not as formal as their winter galas, but it still requires the right dress, the right smile, the right amount of deference to old money sensibilities. I adjust the strap of my cocktail dress, and its pale blue chiffon flutters in the warm breeze. It’s soft and unassuming, designed to blend rather than stand out. The navy silk hugs my curves without being too revealing, the neckline modest enough to pass Helena’s scrutiny. My hair is swept into a low chignon, pearls at my throat—I am the picture of propriety.
Across the manicured lawn, Tobias, now back from Europe, slurs something to his golf buddies, his arm slung around Charlie Lockwood’s shoulders. The way they laugh—heads close, eyes glinting with cruel amusement—sends ice down my spine.
“Evelyn!” The blonde from the yacht photos waves at me, her toothy smile gleaming under the string lights. “Over here!”
I force a smile and weave through the crowd, careful not to spill the champagne flute clutched in my hand. The blonde—I think her name is Blaire—wears a dress that barely covers anything, and her gaze flicks over me with barely concealed judgment.
“Tobias said you’d be late,” she says, voice pitched high with false sweetness. “Something about work?”
“Something like that.” My fingers tighten around the glass.
Blaire leans in, her perfume cloying. “He’s been so stressed lately. His work, the wedding planning—you really should be more supportive.”
Her words are a carefully placed barb, but I’ve been dodging them for years. I take a slow sip of champagne, letting the bubbles dance on my tongue before responding. “Funny, he didn’t mention any stress when he was sending me photos from Geneva. He looked quite relaxed.”
Her smile falters, but she recovers quickly, tossing her hair over one shoulder. “Men like Tobias need outlets, you know. It’s not personal.”
“How generous of you to understand him so well. I’ll make sure to be more…supportive.” I sip my drink again, watching her over the rim of the glass. The taste is bitter now, metallic. “Excuse me.”
I turn before she can reply, my dress whispering against my legs as I stride away. Tobias’s laughter rings out from somewhere nearby, loud and careless. My teeth grind together.
