Page 44 of Until She's Mine
Lucian’s grip tightens, his fingers splaying across my stomach as he pulls me closer. His lips brush against my neck.
“Does this feel real?” His hands drift upward, thumbs brushing the undersides of my breasts.
I tilt my head back against his shoulder, surrendering to his touch. “Yes, but I’m scared, Lucian. Scared of what happens when we leave this place. When reality comes crashing back in.”
His hands still, and he turns me gently to face him. His eyes, usually so sharp and calculating, soften as they meet mine. “You don’t have to be scared. I won’t let anything or anyone hurt you. Not Tobias, not my father, not the world. You’re mine, Evelyn. And I protect what’s mine.”
Then he pulls me back to bed and distracts me with his hands and mouth until the guilt fades.
The next morning, breakfast is a quiet affair, the clink of silverware against fine china the only sound in the vast dining room. The private chef has outdone himself—fluffy omelets, fresh fruit, and warm pastries arranged artfully on the table. Lucian sits across from me, his gaze never straying far, though he doesn’t press me to speak. He knows I’m still working through something, and for once, he’s giving me the space to do it.
I pick at a croissant, my thoughts still tangled in the haze of last night and his words this morning. The buttery flakes crumble under my fingers, but my appetite remains absent.
“Evelyn.” I look up to find Lucian watching me, his coffee cup poised halfway to his lips. “You’re spiraling.”
“Does that not excite you? The art is in the unraveling.” My fingers tighten around the delicate handle of my teacup. “Isn’t that what you’ve always wanted? To see me come apart?”
Lucian sets his cup down, and the corner of his mouth tilts upward. “I want you to come apart.” His voice is low and velvety. “But not like this. Not because you’re questioning everything. I want you to shatter because you trust me enough to let go.”
I look away, my gaze drifting to the sprawling landscape outside the window. The snow-covered pines stretch endlessly, their branches laden with frost, and for a second, I imagine what it would be like to disappear into them, to leave behind this life and start anew. But even as the thought crosses my mind, I know it’s futile.
I don’t want to run anymore.
Not from Lucian.
“Trust,” I say, turning back to him. “That’s the thing, isn’t it? How can I trust you when I don’t even trust myself?”
“You’ve spent your life relying on your own strength, your own control. But you don’t have to do that anymore. Let me carry some of it for you.”
I laugh, but it’s a hollow sound, devoid of humor. “That’s the problem, Lucian. When I let you in, when I let you carry the weight, it feels like I’m losing myself. Like I’m giving up the one thing I’ve always had—my independence.”
He reaches across the table, his hand covering mine. “You’re not losing yourself. Trusting me doesn’t make you weak. It makes you stronger because it means you’re brave enough to let someone else in.”
I look down at his hand on mine, the contrast between his tanned skin and my pale fingers stark in the morning light. His grip is firm, a silent promise that he won’t let go unless I ask himto. And what scares me the most is that part of me doesn’t want him to let go.
“Tell me what you need.” His thumb strokes my knuckles. “Tell me how to make this easier for you. Do you want to go into the town for the day? Or we could stay here, away from everything. Whatever you need, Evelyn, it’s yours.”
My eyes trace the lines of his face: the sharp jaw, the intensity in his gaze, the faint scar above his eyebrow that I’ve always wanted to ask about but never have. He’s waiting, patient and still, as if he has all the time in the world for me to find my words. And maybe he does. That’s what makes this so terrifying—knowing that he’s willing to wait forever if that’s what it takes.
“Let’s stay in.”
I cannot stand the thought of being seen, of facing the world outside these walls. Here, in this secluded estate, I can breathe. Here, it’s just us.
Lucian nods.
“Show me more of your sketches,” I ask.
“Unfortunately, most of them are in the city, locked away in my study.” He leans back in his chair, his fingers drumming on the table. “But there’s something else I can show you.”
My curiosity piques, and I tilt my head. “What is it?”
He stands, extending a hand to me. “Come with me.”
I take his hand without hesitation, letting him lead me through the grand house. We move past the library, past the conservatory filled with lush greenery, until we reach a door at the end of a long hallway. It’s unremarkable compared to the rest of the estate—plain wood, no intricate carvings or ornate handles—but there’s something about it that feels significant.
Lucian releases my hand to unlock the door with a key he pulls from his pocket. The lock clicks open, and he pushes the door inward, stepping aside to let me enter first.
The room is dimly lit, but as soon as I step inside, I understand why it’s kept locked. The walls are covered in hundreds of sketches, maybe thousands. Some are rough and unfinished, quick strokes of charcoal that capture movement and emotion rather than detail. Others are meticulously rendered, every line deliberate and precise. They are not of me.
