Page 35 of Until She's Mine
She blinks, arousal and confusion warring in her blown pupils. “You don’t want—”
“I want.” My laugh is dark. “Christ, Evelyn. But not like this. Not when you’re shaking from adrenaline and rain.” I nod toward the hallway. “You need to change.”
“Now?”she asks in a voice that’s half protest, half plea.
“Yes,” I say firmly, though it takes every ounce of willpower to untangle myself from her. “You’ll catch a cold again if you stay in those wet clothes, and I won’t have you falling ill because of my impatience.”
Evelyn sighs. “Well, I have nothing else to wear.” She glances down at her soaked dress, then back up at me, a small smile tugging at her lips.
“There’s something in the guest room for you.”
Her brows furrow, but her voice is amused. “You planned this?”
I don’t answer immediately, instead guiding her down the hall toward the guest room with a hand still resting on her back. The door opens to reveal a carefully curated space—soft lighting, plush rugs, and a neatly folded set of clothes laid out on the bed. A silk robe in deep emerald, a simple white pajama set that will fit her perfectly.
Her eyes widen. “How long have you been waiting for this moment?”
“Longer than you can imagine,” I admit. My fingers brush against hers as I gesture toward the clothes. “Change. I’ll wait for you in the living room.”
With a soft nod, Evelyn steps into the room and closes the door.
No lock clicks behind her.
Chapter 18
Evelyn
My skin is damp and cold, the fabric of the dress clinging to me like a second skin as I stand in the center of the guest room. The space is warm, almost too warm, and the chill of the rain slowly fades from my bones.
I walk to the bathroom. The mirror fogs up almost immediately as I turn on the hot water in the shower, steam rising in soft tendrils. I strip off the wet dress, letting it fall to the floor in a wet heap. The cool air brushes against my skin, raising goosebumps, but I don’t linger.
The shower is a sanctuary. I close my eyes, letting it wash away the tension that’s been coiled in my body since the party. I reach for a shower gel and notice it’s the same scent and brand I use at home—jasmine and bergamot. Lucian’s been paying attention, cataloging the smallest details about me. It’s both unsettling andheady, knowing he’s observed me so closely, that he anticipates my needs before I voice them.
I linger under the water longer than I should. When I finally step out, I dress quickly in the clothes he left for me. I find a lingerie set under the pile of clothes. It is surprisingly soft against my skin, nothing too revealing, but my cheeks blush nonetheless at the thought of him choosing it. The white cotton shirt and trousers fit perfectly, as if they were made for me—and maybe they were.
I pause, staring at myself in the mirror, and wonder if he’s imagined me like this—soft, vulnerable, entirely his.
I run a hand through my damp hair, letting it fall in loose waves around my shoulders. I step toward the door, my bare feet silent on the plush rug. I hesitate, my hand resting on the doorknob, before I take off my engagement ring and leave it on the bedside table.
The hallway is dimly lit, the soft glow of sconces casting long shadows on the walls. The sound of rain tapping against the windows is replaced by the low hum of slow and haunting music drifting from the living room. I follow it.
Lucian is in the kitchen, his back to me. He’s shed his suit jacket, the sleeves of his white shirt rolled up to his elbows, revealing the corded muscles of his forearms. My breath hitches at the sight, and I wonder if he feels my presence, if he’s aware of my pulse quickening just from watching him.
“You’re quiet,” he says without turning. “But not quiet enough.”
I freeze, caught. “I didn’t mean to sneak up on you.”
He turns. “You didn’t.” Lucian’s eyes sweep over me, lingering on the pajama and the way it clings to my damp skin. “You look comfortable.”
“I am. It fits perfectly,” I say, stepping closer. “What are you making?”
“Chamomile tea. To warm you up.”
I laugh. “You have chamomile tea in your kitchen? I didn’t peg you for the herbal tea type.”
A smirk tugs at the corner of his lips as he turns back to the kettle and pours the steaming water into two cups. “I keep it here for nights when sleep eludes me. Though I suspect it won’t be necessary tonight.”
“Is that your way of saying you’ll sleep better with me here?”
