A tensed feeling.

CAMILA

…

Early the next morning, I slid downstairs and moved toward the kitchen. The kitchen was empty, the cookie box still on the counter where I’d left it.

I grabbed a glass from the cabinet, filled it with water, and downed it in one go, the cold biting my throat.

My hands trembled as I set it down, the unease from the breathing outside my door crawling back up my spine. I needed answers, and King was going to give them to me, whether he liked it or not.

Claire had said he’d been in his studio since dawn, so I headed upstairs, my sneakers silent on the hardwood. The hallway smelled faintly of paint, a sharp tang that stung my nose, and the studio door stood ajar, soft light spilling out.

I paused, my hand hovering over the frame, doubt gnawing at me. What if he shut me down again, like at dinner? What if Katherine was right, and I was just another disposable piece in his game? I shoved the thoughts aside and stepped inside, my voice cutting through the silence.

“King, we need to talk.”

He stood at the canvas, his back to me, his broad shoulders tense under a plain black shirt. His hair was mussed, like he’d been running his hands through it, and his arm moved in slow, deliberate strokes, the brush leaving streaks of gray across the surface.

The painting was vague—shadows and shapes, no clear form yet—but it pulled at something in me, a flicker of recognition I couldn’t place. He didn’t turn, just kept painting, his silence stretching my nerves to its limits.

“Did you hear me?” I pressed, stepping closer, my arms crossing over my chest. “I’m not here to play mute decoration. I need to know what’s going on.”

He set the brush down, the clink of it against the table loud in the quiet, and finally faced me. Those hazel eyes hit me hard—sharp, guarded, shadowed with something that looked like exhaustion.

His jaw was tight, stubble darkening the edges, and he looked… tired. Not just physically, but deep, like something had been eating at him all night.

“You’re up early,” he said, his voice low, neutral, but there was a thread of tension in it I couldn’t miss.

“Couldn’t sleep,” I replied, my tone sharper than I meant it to be. “Not after Katherine caught me sneaking cookies at 3 a.m., acting like I’m some criminal. Or after hearing someone breathing outside my door like a damn stalker. This place is a freak show, and you’re not telling me anything.”

His gaze narrowed, flicking over my face like he was searching for something. “Katherine’s a nuisance,” he said, his voice clipped. “She doesn’t like strangers. Ignore her.”

“Ignore her?” I scoffed, my frustration boiling over. “She said the other girls didn’t last. That I won’t either if I don’t ‘know my place.’ What does that mean? What happened to them? And don’t give me that ‘rest’ line again—I’m not here for your vague bullshit.”

He stepped closer, the air between us thickening, and I had to fight the urge to step back. His presence was overwhelming—tall, solid, the faint scent of cedar and paint clinging to him—but I held my ground, my chin lifting defiantly.

For a long moment, he just stared, his eyes boring into mine, and I thought he’d brush me off again. Then he sighed, a rough, reluctant sound, and rubbed a hand over his face.

“The others…” He paused, his voice dropping, like the words cost him something. “They couldn’t handle it. The rules, the hours. Some left on their own. Some I told to go. That’s it.”

“That’s it?” I echoed, my stomach twisting. “That’s not an answer. What’s the job, King? Why am I here? You say I’m supposed to be available whenever you want, but for what? I’m not a damn puppet.”

“You’re not,” he said, his tone softening, just enough to throw me off. “You’re… necessary. I don’t paint just anyone, Camila. I saw you at that club—your fire, your fight. It’s not about puppets. It’s about you.”

My breath caught, his words sinking into me like hooks. Necessary. Me. His eyes held mine, steady and intense, and for a second, I saw something flicker there—something raw, unguarded, gone before I could name it.

My heart thudded, a mix of fear and something warmer curling in my chest, and I hated how it pulled at me, how it made me want to step closer instead of run.

“What does that even mean?” I whispered, my voice unsteady. “Why me?”

He opened his mouth, then closed it, his hand twitching like he wanted to reach out but didn’t trust himself. “I don’t explain well,” he said finally, his voice rough. “Just… stay. You’ll see.”

“See what?” I pressed, but he turned back to the canvas, picking up the brush again, shutting me out. I stood there, my fists clenched, frustration and confusion warring inside me.

He wasn’t giving me enough—not nearly enough—but that word, ‘necessary’, echoed in my head, tugging at something I didn’t want to face.

Before I could push harder, a sharp thud echoed from downstairs—a heavy sound, followed by Claire’s scream. King’s head snapped toward the door, his body tensed up.

“What was that?” I asked, my pulse spiking.

“Stay here,” he ordered, already moving, his voice hard, commanding.

“No way,” I shot back, following him despite the warning in his eyes.

We hit the stairs fast, my sneakers thudding behind his silent steps, and reached the foyer just as Claire stumbled out of the dining room, her face pale, a broken glass at her feet.

“Master King—” she started, her voice trembling, but she froze when she saw me behind him.

“What happened?” he demanded, his gaze sweeping the room.

Claire wrung her hands, her eyes darting to the front door. “I—I heard something outside. Then the glass… it just fell. I swear I didn’t drop it.”

King’s jaw tightened, and he strode to the door, yanking it open. Cold morning air rushed in, carrying the faint sound of footsteps crunching on gravel—retreating, fast. He stepped outside, scanning the empty driveway, his posture shifting into something lethal, something that screamed danger.

“King?” I called, my voice shaking as I joined him, the chill biting my skin.

He didn’t answer, his eyes fixed on the shadows beyond the gate. Then he turned, his expression hard, unreadable, and grabbed my arm, pulling me back inside.

“Someone’s watching us,” he said, his voice low, a growl that sent ice down my spine. “And they’re not done.”