"Camila, you're not going anywhere unless I say so. Got it?"

A faint scent drifted off her skin, hitting his nose. Prescott's eyes darkened, and the tone in his voice sank lower, edged with threat.

Camila's chest tightened under that stare. She turned her head away, her voice next came a little icier. "This is illegal detention. It's a crime. You're not even scared I might call the cops?"

Was he really that fearless? Or did he just assume she wouldn't dare?

"Who said I'm detaining you illegally?" he shot back, eyes full of mocking amusement. "Killers aren't exactly under police jurisdiction, you know."

Insane!

What killer? Her?!

If she were really here to take him out, would she be standing here talking nonsense with him? She would've knocked him out by now.

"Why are you even locking me up? I don't even know you. You must have a reason, right? Just tell me," Camila said, frowning, her voice quieting down into something calmer.

"I already told you-I think you were sent to assassinate me."

Seriously, what was the point of this conversation? Clearly their brains weren't wired the same way.

Prescott seemed to notice just how pissed off she was. He finally let go of her wrist and turned toward the dining table.

When Camila stayed frozen where she was, clearly stunned, his deep voice rolled back toward her. "Prescott Ellington."

"Huh?" She squinted slightly, not hearing him clearly, eyes locked on his proud, retreating figure.

"My name. Prescott. Remember it."

There was no room for argument in his tone-he made it sound like an order.

*****

After a tasteless breakfast that felt like chewing on cardboard, Prescott brought Camila to the medical wing.

Calling it that didn't do it justice-it was practically a mini hospital, massive and decked out with high-end medical equipment.

A few doctors hurried over the second they saw him, respectfully greeting, "Sir."

Prescott gave a casual nod, but his eyes landed on Camila, who was curiously looking around. He told the doctors flatly, "Check her wrist first."

Hearing that, Camila snapped out of her daze, turning toward him. Her jet-black eyes widened slightly in surprise-he was actually paying attention to that?

She hadn't expected the guy, who was all aggression and control, to suddenly show this kind of quiet concern.

Honestly, her wrist had been aching this whole time. But she'd been too busy trying to get out to really care. Her plan was to deal with it later at a hospital. Yet here he was, bringing it up first.

She parted her lips, staring at his chiseled, unreadable face, unsure what to say.

Thanks? Kind of hard to say thank you when he was the reason her wrist was hurt in the first place.

Mad at him? Oh, definitely. Being locked up here like some criminal-it would be weirder if she wasn't angry.

But... his attitude now? It might've chipped away at some of her fury. Just a bit.

"Yes, sir," one of the doctors answered.

Some of them glanced at Camila again, clearly noticing she wasn't just anyone to Prescott.

A female doctor helped her get an X-ray. When Camila's pale arm stretched out, the bruised, swollen skin around her wrist stood out harshly under the fluorescent light.

Prescott stood right by her side the whole time, glancing down at her hand-those dark eyes flickered, tension tightening at the edges.

He knew full well he was the one who did that.

He'd gone through training since he was a kid-his grip strength was way more than average. That injury had to hurt like hell.

This woman had serious tolerance. Not bad.

Prescott narrowed his dark eyes slightly. He didn't say a word, but deep down, he admired how Camila had endured the pain without a sound.

He had no patience for women who were fragile and clingy-it bored him to death.

The infirmary was well-equipped, so the results came out quickly.

"Miss Harrington's wrist isn't fractured. With regular treatment, it should heal just fine."

"Thank you, doctor." Camila tilted her face slightly, a soft and polite smile appearing on her clean, delicate features.

Prescott had been watching her the whole time. The look in his eyes deepened, locked onto her face like he couldn't tear himself away.

That burning stare was impossible to ignore. Camila felt uneasy under it. Her hand moved stiffly as she brushed a strand of hair back, head slightly lowered.

Prescott finally pulled back his gaze a touch and casually said, "I'll be away for a while."

He's leaving?

Her head snapped up, her wide eyes lighting up with a glimmer of excitement.

As long as this guy was out of the picture, it'd be way easier for her to make a run for it...

Prescott definitely caught that flash of joy in her eyes, and it didn't sit well with him. He lifted her chin with his long fingers, his voice low and cold, "Camila, don't even think about running. You haven't seen me truly pissed off-you couldn't handle it."

He was never known for having a gentle temper.

"Noted," Camila replied, frowning as she brushed his hand away.

She hated how he always liked to grab her face like it was nothing. But knowing just how overbearing he could be, she wasn't dumb enough to push him right now.

As for what she was secretly thinking? He didn't need to know.

Prescott looked at her with a satisfied smirk as she kept her eyes lowered obediently. "You're free to move around all you want here at the estate. While I'm gone, if anything comes up, talk to Beckett or Willa. They'll handle it."

Willa? Who's that again?Even though Camila had her doubts, she didn't ask anything. Honestly, she just wanted Prescott gone as soon as possible.

"Got it," she responded half-heartedly.

Her long, shiny black hair fell softly over her shoulders, perfectly shielding her expression.

Prescott cast a look down at her from above, catching a glimpse of her slender, graceful neck peeking out from behind her hair-fair and delicate, like something out of a painting.

His gaze grew a little too intense. Leaning in slightly, his tall frame shadowed hers, and his long fingers moved in almost a trance as he brushed against a strand of her hair.

A soft, clean scent drifted up from her hair-barely noticeable, but oddly calming, just like her.

Somehow, she always managed to hush the chaos in his mind, quiet the pain he'd grown used to carrying.

This woman, Camila, was different. If only she kept playing nice, he could give her everything-everything except love.

"Be good and wait for me," he murmured, his low, raspy voice grazing the tip of her ear like liquid smoldering against skin.

Camila's body stiffened up, her back held ramrod straight.

She bit her lip, wanting to shove him away, but her clenched fists refused to budge.

Don't act out. Don't be stupid. Keep calm. That was her mantra.

He'd be gone soon. There was no need-zero-for her to piss him off now.

But headspace was one thing-her body had a mind of its own. Caught in his overwhelming presence, she simply couldn't settle herself.

Her heart hammered in her chest, and her face flushed in an instant, like someone had smeared rouge across it. The sight made Prescott's eyes darken, his throat tighten.

Damn it.

Why the hell was he reacting to her like this? Was he really that starved for affection?

All this time keeping himself in check... and yet the moment he was around her, it all came crashing down.

His expression turned a bit stormy. Prescott stared at her for a beat, then spun around and walked off without a word.

Look closely and you'd see it-his proud, brisk steps were a little too stiff, like even he wasn't sure what the hell just hit him.