“The restoration project,” he repeats slowly. His gaze drops to my lips before returning to my eyes. “A convenient excuse, but we both know you could’ve sent a note or made a call. You didn’t need to come here in person.”
“Maybe I wanted to see what kind of man would ask his brother’s fiancée to meet him in a place like this.”
Lucian tilts his head. “And what have you concluded?” His voice drops to a near whisper. “What kind of man do you see when you look at me?”
“A dangerous one. Someone who plays games with stakes, I’m not sure I understand.”
“You understand more than you let on. You always have.” He reaches out, his fingers brushing a loose strand of hair from my face. “Have a drink with me.”
He steps over to the bar, his movements precise and unhurried. After pouring two glasses of amber liquid, he returns and pulls out a chair for me. I sit down.
Lucian takes the seat next to me. The firelight reflects in his eyes, giving them a molten quality that makes it impossible to look away.
He raises his glass. “To curiosity.”
I lift mine in response. “Curiosity can be dangerous.”
“So can denial.”
The whiskey burns as I take a sip, its warmth spreading through me. Lucian’s gaze lingers on my face.
“You’re staring,” I murmur into my glass.
“Counting your freckles.” His fingertip traces the rim of his drink. “You’ve got twenty-seven on your left cheek. Thirty-two on your right. Like constellations.”
Heat floods my cheeks, and I lower my glass. “And what do you hope to map out with those constellations?”
“Everything. Every detail, every mark, every secret you try to hide. I want to know it all.”
I take another sip of my drink. “You might not like what you find.”
“I’m willing to take that risk.”
The whiskey unravels me thread by thread as Lucian steers the conversation from the Caravaggio painting to art in general. He speaks of brushstrokes and restoration techniques with an expertise that surprises me, as though he’s studied them for years. When he brings up my abandoned thesis on Baroque forgery techniques and quotes passages I wrote five years ago at NYU, I ask, “You’ve read my work?”
His knee brushes mine under the table. “Of course, I did.”
By the third glass, I’m confessing things I’ve never told Tobias—how I’ve always felt like an outsider in the Blackwood world. How I’ve spent years trying to prove myself worthy of their peer approval. How I’ve come to realize that no matter what I do, I’ll always fall short.
“You don’t need to prove anything,” he says. “Not to them. Not to anyone.”
I laugh softly. “Easy for you to say. You’ve always been the golden child, the one they can count on. Tobias may have the charm, but you… You have the power.”
His eyes darken at that, and his thumb swipes a droplet of whiskey from my lower lip. “Power is overrated. What good is it if it doesn’t give you what you truly want?”
I swallow hard. “And what is it you want?”
“You already know.”
“You can’t just imply things like that. You know I can’t—”
“Can’t want me back? Can’t admit that you think about me as much as I think about you? I’ve watched you, Evelyn. You’re not content with your life. You wear a mask, but it doesn’t fit. I know what it’s like to live behind a mask. The cost of it.”
“You think you know me so well. But you don’t.”
“I know you better than Tobias ever could. He sees what he wants to see—a beautiful woman who fits neatly into his vision of the perfect life. Quiet. Compliant. Convenient. You’ve spent your life bending to the expectations of others. When was the last time you did something purely for yourself?”
Three years ago and my life went to hell,I think.
