Chapter 59
Julian's POV
The pharmacy's fluorescent lights felt obscene at this hour, harsh and clinical against the quiet darkness outside. I stood in front of the family planning section, grabbed three boxes without bothering to read the labels, and threw cash at the tired-looking cashier before she could make small talk.
The walk back took less than ten minutes, but every second felt like an eternity. My hands were still unsteady—not from nerves, but from the memory of Evelyn coming apart beneath my touch, the sound of my name on her lips, the way she'd looked at me like I was the only thing that mattered.
I let myself into her building and took the stairs, needing to burn off the restless energy thrumming under my skin. By the time I reached her floor, my heart was pounding from exertion and anticipation in equal measure.
I knocked softly. No answer. Tried the handle—unlocked, which should have concerned me more than it did—and pushed the door open.
The apartment was dimly lit, just the lamp in the corner casting long shadows across the hardwood. And there, on the sofa where I'd left her, was Evelyn.
Asleep.
She'd pulled the cashmere blanket back over herself, wrapped it around her body like a cocoon. Her head was tilted against the armrest, her hair spilling across the cushions. One hand was tucked under her cheek. The other hung loosely over the edge of the sofa, fingers relaxed.
She looked peaceful. Younger. The hard edges she always wore like armor had softened in sleep, revealing something fragile underneath.
I stood there for a moment, just looking at her. Then I crossed to the coffee table and set the pharmacy bag down carefully. Lowered myself onto the edge of the table facing her.
This close, I could see the faint shadows under her eyes. The tension that lingered even in sleep, as if some part of her never fully let go. The silver cross rising and falling with each breath, catching the lamplight.
She'd waited for me. Had tried to stay awake. And when exhaustion finally claimed her, she'd trusted—or at least gambled—that I would come back.
The thought did something strange to my chest. Made it hard to breathe for reasons that had nothing to do with the stairs I'd just climbed.
I reached out, almost touching her face, then stopped myself. Let my hand fall back to my knee. Because if I touched her now, if I woke her, I wasn't sure I could trust myself to be gentle. To take my time the way she deserved instead of giving in to the hunger that had been building for seven years.
I needed a minute. Needed to get myself under control.
I stood and headed toward the bedroom, needing distance and cold water in equal measure. The apartment's layout was simple enough—I'd clocked it the moment I walked in earlier. Living area, kitchen, single bedroom with the bathroom tucked inside.
The bedroom was sparse. A bed with white linens. A single nightstand. A upholstered bench at the foot of the bed. No personal touches, no photographs, nothing that marked this space as truly hers. It looked like a hotel room. Temporary. Unlived-in.
I pulled my sweater over my head, then the t-shirt underneath, and draped both over the bench. The air was cool against my bare skin, but it did nothing to ease the heat still burning under the surface.
The bathroom door was open. I stepped inside—white marble and chrome fixtures, compact but well-appointed, probably original to the building. Clean lines. No clutter. A single toothbrush by the sink. A bar of unscented soap.
I turned on the shower, twisted the handle all the way to cold, and stepped under the spray.
The shock of icy water hit like a physical blow. Exactly what I needed. I braced my hands against the tile and let it pour over my head, my shoulders, trying to cool the heat still burning under my skin.
It didn't work.
Because even with freezing water sluicing down my back, all I could think about was Evelyn on that sofa. Evelyn naked beneath me earlier. Evelyn's mouth on mine. Evelyn gasping my name as she came.
I was still hard. Had been hard since I left the pharmacy, maybe since I left her apartment the first time. My body didn't seem to understand that we needed to wait, needed to—
The door handle rattled.
I went still. Water continued to pour over me, but I'd stopped breathing. Listening.
The door opened.
I forced myself to start moving again. Ran my hands through my wet hair like nothing had changed. Like my heart wasn't suddenly trying to punch through my ribs.
Footsteps. Bare feet on tile. Soft and deliberate.
Then her voice, slightly rough from sleep: "Why is it so cold in here?"
I glanced over my shoulder. Evelyn stood in the doorway, wrapped in that cashmere blanket. It covered her from chest to mid-thigh, leaving her long legs bare. Her hair was mussed, her eyes still heavy-lidded. She looked like she'd just rolled out of bed—which, technically, she had.
"Cold shower," I said. Reached for the temperature control and twisted it higher. Steam began to rise almost immediately. "Better?"
"Better." She didn't leave. Just stood there watching me through the glass, head tilted slightly like she was studying something interesting.
I turned back to the spray, trying to ignore the way my pulse had kicked up. Trying to focus on the simple mechanics of washing—soap, water, rinse—instead of the fact that Evelyn Valentine was watching me shower.
"See something you like?" I asked. Kept my tone light, casual, even though there was nothing casual about the way my body was responding to her presence.
"You looked at me plenty earlier," she said. "Now it's my turn."
Fair point. I'd stared at her like a starving man at a feast, memorized every curve and hollow. Turnabout was fair play.