Page 46 of Until She's Mine
“Good,” he says. “Vulnerability is where truth lies.”
The first stroke of charcoal against paper is barely audible, but it might as well be thunder for how it reverberates through me. I watch his hand move with practiced confidence, his brow furrowed in concentration. This is Lucian in his element—not the controlled lawyer or the commanding presence that dominates boardrooms, but the artist who learned to bleed onto paper long before he learned to want me.
“Tell me about your grandmother,” I say softly, needing to fill the charged silence between us.
His hand pauses for just a moment before resuming its steady rhythm. “Vivienne Blackwood. She was fierce. Beautiful in the way that comes from surviving things that should have destroyed her.” Another stroke, this one capturing the angle of my jaw. “She married into the family for money, the same as most women of her generation. But she refused to let it hollow her out.”
“Like me?”
His eyes flick up to meet mine, dark and knowing. “You’re nothing like the women who marry for money, Evelyn. You’re marrying—were marrying—for safety. For the illusion of stability.” The charcoal moves across the paper. “But you were never safe with Tobias. Not really.”
“And am I safe with you?”
Lucian’s hand stills. When he looks at me this time, there’s something almost feral in his expression—not dangerous, but utterly wild. Untamed.
“No. You’re not safe with me. But you’re alive with me in a way you’ve never been before.”
Part of me wants to flee, to demand he take me back to the city where I can pretend this weekend was just an elaborate fantasy. But a larger part—the part that’s been suffocating for years—wants to lean into that danger, to embrace whatever destruction he might bring.
“Keep drawing,” I say.
His lips curve into a smile. “Turn your head to the left. Yes, like that.” The charcoal resumes its dance across the paper. “My grandmother would have liked you. She had a talent for seeing through facades, for recognizing authenticity even when it was buried deep.”
“What happened to her?”
“Cancer. Quick and brutal.” His jaw tightens. “She lasted three months after diagnosis. Spent most of that time in her studio, painting like she could capture enough beauty to take with her.”
I think of my grandmother, gone now for five years, who taught me to see art as more than decoration, as windows into souls. “Did she finish what she was working on?”
“A self-portrait. She was radiant in it. Not the way she looked in those final weeks, but the way she saw herself. Eternal. Unbroken. I have it hanging in my study at home. The only piece of her work my father couldn’t bear to sell.”
I understand now why he hoards beauty—sketches, paintings, moments stolen in charcoal. He’s trying to make permanent what time insists on taking away.
“Is that what you’re doing with me? Trying to capture me before I disappear?”
Lucian’s hand freezes mid-stroke. The silence stretches taut as a wire, and I wonder if I’ve pushed too far, asked the question he’s not ready to answer. When he finally speaks, his voice is rough with honesty. “I’m not trying to capture you, Evelyn. I’m trying to worship you in the only way I know how. Every line I draw, every shadow I capture—it’s an offering. A prayer towhatever gods might be listening that this time, I won’t lose what matters most.”
My chest aches. I want to go to him, to smooth the furrow from his brow and hug him. But I stay still, letting him work and pour his devotion onto paper in the only language he’s ever truly known.
“You’re afraid I’ll leave,” I say softly.
“Terrified. Each moment with you feels borrowed. Like I’m stealing time I don’t deserve.”
“And if I promised to stay?”
“Would you mean it?”
The question hangs between us, weighted with years of his waiting and my uncertainty. I think of Tobias, probably nursing his wounded pride in some expensive hotel suite. Thinking about ways to make me pay for choosing his brother. With a snap of his fingers or a pile of documents, he could make me disappear.
“Yes,” I whisper, and the word feels like stepping off a cliff. “I would try the hardest to stay.”
The charcoal slips from his fingers, clattering to the floor. In two strides, he’s across the room, his hands framing my face as he searches my eyes for any trace of doubt or deception. Whatever he finds there must satisfy him because his lips meet mine with a reverent tenderness.
The kiss tastes like promises and hope, like burning bridges and new beginnings. This is what devotion feels like—consuming and absolute, terrifying in its intensity.
When we break apart, we’re both breathing hard. His forehead rests against mine, his eyes closed.
“I’ll destroy anyone who tries to take you from me,” he says against my lips. “My father, my brother, the entire fucking world if necessary.”
