Chapter Twenty-Seven

Iexpect Camden to look his best for our dinner tonight, to try to tempt me. What I don’t expect is for him to be so successful. The moment I see him, I have to stop my jaw from dropping. He’s always well dressed, whether he’s in simple clothes or a suit, but I’ve never found my eyes glued to his corded biceps and broad shoulders, visible beneath the well-tailored fabric of his dress shirt. Or the way his forearms, thick and veiny, are exposed by the rolled-up sleeves of said shirt. Or the way his eyes are locked on me with a singular intensity that makes me feel like a deer faced down with a hunter’s crossbow.

I’m filthy from spending the entire day shedding blood, sweat, and tears to ward the entire castle grounds, which are very expansive. If I gave a shit what Camden thought of me, I might feel embarrassed at my appearance—my shirt and pants covered in grass, dirt, and blood. As it is, I only feel resentful of the Alpha for fucking me over last night, literally.

“You look like you’ve had quite the day,” he remarks calmly, stepping aside and motioning for me to enter the room with an arm.

“You have a very large estate, and seeing as Leisel is quite the explorer, I wanted to ward as much of it as possible,” I respond, tentatively stepping into the room and looking around.

I’m in what appears to be a living room—decorated in royal blues and silvers, it has a high ceiling with gorgeous glass prisms serving as lightbulbs that bathe the entire room in light, wooden flooring, and a beautiful fireplace with a silver-encrusted carved mantel. In front of the fireplace is a large blue sofa, and across the room, a square table large enough to seat four people is set with dishes, silverware, glasses, and an array of delicious looking foods.

Leading me over to the table with a hand hovering above the small of my back, Camden asks, “How did it go? Were the wards successfully placed?”

I nod. “Yes. The crown’s entire land is safe, and Claude suspects anyone who tries to cross the wards without invitation or with ill intent will perish.”

Camden smiles at me, looking genuinely proud and pleased. “I know everyone will sleep easier knowing they’re protected by one of the strongest witches of our times. Thank you, Sierra.”

This is the second time he’s thanked me for something in twenty-four hours, and I don’t know how to respond to a display of common decency from him. Generally, from what I’ve seen, he has very little. While my observations of Camden thus far have been clouded by a deep personal disdain towards his existence, it is evident that he was raised in a very particular way that didn’t teach him the value of commonplace manners, such as everyday politeness.

While I can understand that, as a king and Alpha, Camden’s not in a position in this world to indulge in niceties, I also dislike feeling like I’m a puppet on strings, and Camden has a keen way of making those around him feel like objects. Things to be used to achieve a desired outcome. My usefulness to him is as his mate; as the only person who can sire heirs to him, strengthen him, and complete his soul. I’m his path to success, prosperity, and happiness, whereas he is the person who’s turned my life upside down without a single care as to how it’d affect me.

Since I’ve already said much of that aloud, I settle on an awkward, “You’re welcome.”

Camden inclines his head. “I know I don’t thank you enough, or show you that you matter to me beyond just being my mate. I want to be very clear that I like you for you, with or without the bond that connects us.”

I can’t help the irritation that curls in my stomach. While Camden’s words are nice, his actions do not support them. He might say he likes me regardless of us being mates, but none of what he’s done thus far has demonstrated that. He’s ripped me out of my home and village only to throw me into a society that I neither know nor understand. He hasn’t shown any particular amount of compassion—only ambition to get what he wants, which is currently me.

For a reason that’s absolutely beyond me, I find myself saying, “Sorry, Camden, but your words mean shit to me.”

Camden’s eyes flicker between irritation and confusion for several moments before hardening with resolve. He gives me a single nod. “That’s fair. Actions speak louder than words. Follow me.”

Abruptly, he turns and walks to the other side of the room. Not the exit leading back to the hall, but deeper into his personal chambers. He pauses at the door, looking at me expectantly.

Torn between genuine curiosity and a whole lot of well-placed distrust, I cast one last glance at the admittedly inviting-looking dinner spread before taking several uncertain steps toward Camden.

With one hand on the golden door handle, he holds his free hand out to me with a conspiratorial smile that is at once boyishly charming and unsettling. Unsettling, because Camden’s smiles usually range from regal to condescending—rarely is there anything boyish about him; he’s clearly all man.

“Trust me?” he asks.

The earnestness in his tone makes me close my lips around the fuck no that was ready to fly out. Before this moment, I’ve never seen or heard earnestness from Camden. He’s too busy with his station and duties to lower himself to the rest of us mortals. More than anything, it’s curiosity that directs me to incline my head in agreement and hesitantly slip my hand into his.

His grip is warm, strong, and sends an entirely foreign rush of sensations through me. Previously, whenever I had skin-to-skin contact with Camden, I was able to mostly ignore any feelings of sparks or pleasure that the bond ignited within me—my hatred of him overshadowed them. Now, however, the sensation the bond creates is decidedly more subdued—as though it’s no longer a physical jar to my entire system—yet strong enough that I can’t ignore it. The strange feeling of safety I’ve only felt flickers of previously is now much more intense. The bond between us really did strengthen overnight in ways I couldn’t have fathomed, because there is nothing safe about this man, especially when it comes to me.

I try to yank my hand from his, ready to veto wherever he’s taking me so we can eat our dinner in uncomfortable silence. Camden, however, doesn’t allow it; he merely tightens his grip so I can’t escape, opens the door, and leads me into a hallway with dark polished wooden walls and flooring. I startle when I glimpse the art hanging on the walls; two of the paintings displayed are mine—ones I left behind in Aesara when Leisel and I had to move.

One painting is of a jewel-studded fruit bowl filled with rotting fruits that are crawling with maggots—a social commentary on wealth I don’t think Camden picked up on, otherwise he wouldn’t be displaying it. Another is a bright painting of a river near the farm where I used to take Leisel every weekend. Looking at it causes a feeling of nostalgia to sweep over me; it reminds me of simpler times.

Before I can ask Camden why the paintings I deliberately kept away from him are now gracing the walls of his personal chambers, he stops in front of a door and pulls a key out of his pocket, unlocking it. He pushes it open and when I glimpse what fills the room, my heart stutters before tripling in speed with excitement. Camden doesn’t protest when I pull my hand from his and rush into the room.

It’s every painter’s dream studio combined into one. The far side of the room is comprised of windows, showing a gorgeous view of the moon and countless stars lighting up the royal grounds. During the daytime, the light that filters in would be perfect for painting and sketching.

On the other three walls of the large room are easels, canvasses, pigments, paints, brushes, and just about every tool a painter could need. The items are the best quality I’ve ever seen, and the whole room might as well be straight out of a fairytale.

I walk up to the wall of glass facing the castle grounds, dazed.

Camden says from behind me, “I first ordered construction on this room when I saw your paintings in Aesara. You’re remarkably talented. It took some time to complete, but I had the builders consult with artists and architects on what would best suit a painter’s needs.” When I don’t respond, too awe-struck to string together a sentence, I hear his footsteps carry him across the polished wooden flooring closer to me. He goes on, “The space is yours. You can come here whenever you like.”

“Don’t think I don’t notice you deliberately had a studio constructed in your wing instead of mine,” I murmur. The only reason I don’t resent that right now is because I’m still taking in the fact that Camden went through what sounds like a good deal of effort to create a space solely for me.

A soft breath of laughter tickles the back of my neck as he stops behind me, sweeping my hair over my shoulder. I remind him, “You promised you wouldn’t touch me without permission.”

He lets out a grunt of displeasure but drops his hands and moves to stand beside me. “Apologies. It’s challenging to be so close to you yet unable to touch you. As for your art studio’s placement…well, you can’t blame a tiger for its stripes. I saw an opportunity to have you in my personal space and I took it. I like having you near me, Sierra; you center me. But I won’t disturb you when you’re working. I don’t know much about art, but I know very well from royal commissions just how temperamental artists can be. Your painting time is your own.”

I swallow past the knot in my throat, unsure what to say or do. Camden’s never been so blatantly kind to me, and although the placement of my studio is expectedly manipulative, this is an act of kindness. My painting hobby has no measurable benefit to him; the only reason he’d go through this effort is for my happiness and comfort.

The last time anyone went out of their way for my happiness and comfort was when my parents were still alive. Since then, it’s been me looking out for Leisel’s and my best interests, with minimal outside help. To have someone else go through so much effort on my behalf is such a foreign sensation I’ve forgotten how to respond to it.

I remember the way my parents loved each other, eternally and endlessly. They would’ve done anything for each other. They survived many hardships together, always forging on despite impossible odds. My father doted on my mother as much as he was able—he’d pick her wildflowers every other day so our kitchen and living room were always bursting with colorful bouquets. He’d buy her art supplies from the village when harvest was plentiful and we had some extra money, brought her mugs of tea and coffee when she was painting, and showered her with love. Despite being dirt poor, our quality of life was as rich as it got, and that was because of the strong bond my parents shared.

Camden hasn’t completed any herculean tasks for me, but he did go out of his way to do something that would make me happy. That’s not something I expected of him, and because I didn’t expect it, I have no defense formulated, so the gesture batters at the resistance I’ve naturally accumulated against Camden rather effectively.

Camden holds out his hand, the key to the room resting in his palm. “It’s yours. I hope you use it as often as you like; it’s here for you. Now, let’s get you fed, and you can tell me about your adventures with Claude and Wyatt.”