Chapter 66
Evelyn's POV
We ate in relative silence, and in that quiet, my mind began to spiral.
Last night I'd thought I was going to die. That Viktor would send someone to execute me before dawn, that those hours with Julian were all I'd have left. In that certainty, consequences hadn't mattered. I could take what I wanted, give what I needed to give, because there would be no tomorrow to navigate.
But now there was a tomorrow. And I had no idea what that meant for us.
What were we now? A couple? The word alone made something tighten uncomfortably in my chest, made my instincts scream danger in a way that had nothing to do with physical threat. Couples had expectations, obligations, vulnerabilities. Couples could be used against each other, could become liabilities.
Fuck buddies, then? That felt safer somehow. More manageable. Julian was certainly good enough at that part—last night had proven that thoroughly. Physical pleasure without emotional entanglement, mutual satisfaction without the messy complications of feelings.
Except even as I tried to convince myself of that framework, I knew it was a lie. Whatever this was, it had already gone beyond simple physical release.
When we finished eating, Julian stood and moved to the sofa with the easy confidence of someone completely comfortable in the space. He settled into the corner, then patted the cushion beside him in clear invitation.
I felt an unexpected bubble of amusement rise in my chest—an emotion so foreign after years of Kholod's training that it took me a moment to recognize it. The casual presumption of the gesture, the expectation that I'd simply come when summoned in my own apartment.
"This is my place," I pointed out, but there was no heat in it.
Julian's eyebrow arched, that infuriating smirk playing at his lips. "You're wearing my shirt."
The childish back-and-forth was so absurd, so normal, that I almost laughed. When was the last time I'd engaged in playful banter? When had I last felt light enough for teasing?
I sat beside him, and immediately his arm came around me, guiding my head to rest on his shoulder. The position should have felt restrictive, should have triggered every defensive instinct I had about maintaining distance and freedom of movement.
But instead, it felt... safe. Comfortable in a way that made no logical sense.
Why did this posture bring such peace? His heartbeat steady beneath my ear, his warmth seeping into my side, the rise and fall of his chest with each breath. It was dangerous how right it felt.
After a few minutes of quiet, Julian's fingers found my chin, tilting my face up to his. The kiss started gentle—soft exploration, unhurried tenderness that made my chest ache.
But it deepened quickly, heat building between us as his tongue traced the seam of my lips. His hand slid into my hair, angling my head for better access, and I felt myself melting into him despite having just been thoroughly satisfied hours ago.
His other hand began to wander, sliding under the hem of his t-shirt I was wearing, fingers tracing patterns on my bare skin that made me shiver. The touch was possessive, claiming, and I found myself arching into it—
His phone rang, the sharp sound cutting through the haze of arousal.
Julian pulled back with a muttered curse, reaching for the device on the coffee table. When he answered, his voice came out rough, gravelly with desire. "Yeah?"
I stayed where I was, my head resting against his chest, and felt an uncomfortable twist in my stomach. An unfamiliar sensation that took me a moment to identify.
Please don't let it be a woman.
The thought was so foreign, so possessive, that it startled me. I didn't have the right to care who called him. Didn't have the right to feel this spike of something that felt uncomfortably like jealousy.
"Got it," Julian said, his voice already back to its normal tone. Professional, controlled. "Thanks, Webb."
He ended the call and pressed a kiss to my hair, the gesture so casual and affectionate that it made my throat tight.
"My assistant's here with my clothes," he said. "Could you get them from the door for me?"
I pulled back to look at him. "Why can't you get them yourself?"
His expression shifted into something almost boyish, deliberately pathetic. "Because I'm exhausted. I haven't slept in over thirty-six hours, I just spent the morning coordinating an international conspiracy, and I'm too tired to get my clothes." He traced a finger down my arm, his voice dropping into a playful whine. "Help me out here, baby?"
The casual endearment, the shameless manipulation, the way he was looking at me with those grey eyes—I felt my resistance crumbling before I could even mount a proper defense.
I stood, and Julian immediately reached for the throw blanket draped over the back of the sofa, handing it to me.
"Wrap up," he said, his tone shifting to something more serious. "Webb's a guy."
The protective edge in his voice shouldn't have pleased me as much as it did. I took the blanket without argument, draping it around my shoulders to cover the oversized t-shirt that barely reached mid-thigh.
When I opened the door, I found a young man in an expensive suit, holding a garment bag and leather portfolio. His expression remained professionally neutral as he took in my appearance, though I saw the slight widening of his eyes.
"Ms. Valentine," he said, his tone carefully modulated. "I'm Webb, Mr. Russell's personal assistant."
"Thank you," I said, taking the items. "He's—resting."
"Of course." Webb's gaze remained fixed somewhere over my shoulder, pointedly not looking at anything that might confirm what he clearly already knew. "Please tell him the matter from this morning has been handled. All arrangements are in place."
I nodded, recognizing the coded language about Caldwell's extraction. "I'll let him know."
Webb gave a slight bow and left without another word. Professional to the core, and I knew instinctively he wouldn't gossip about what he'd seen here.
When I returned to the living room, Julian had already succumbed to exhaustion. He was sprawled across the sofa, one arm thrown over his eyes, his breathing deep and even. Asleep.
I set the garment bag and portfolio aside, then stood there watching him for a long moment.
This was when I needed to think. To figure out what we were doing and how to handle it.
Whatever label we put on this—couple, fuck buddies, something undefined—one thing was certain: it couldn't be public. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
The risks were too high. A weakness to exploit. If the Winthrops discovered I was sleeping with Julian Russell while supposedly mourning Arthur, while still living under their family name...
The scandal alone would be devastating. But more than that, it would hurt Adrian. Would confirm every ugly suspicion his family already had about me, would validate their belief that I'd never belonged in their world.
And Julian clearly had no instinct for discretion. He'd let me answer the door to his assistant while wearing nothing but his t-shirt and a blanket. Had made no effort to hide what we'd been doing, hadn't seemed to care who knew.
That would have to change. We'd need rules, boundaries, an understanding about how this worked in public versus private.
But as I watched him sleep, vulnerable and exhausted after spending the night saving me, I felt that uncomfortable warmth in my chest intensify.
Whatever this was, whatever we were becoming—I wasn't ready to let it go. Not yet.