I don’t even bother pretending. “Yeah, Camden. I’m fine.”
He lets out a low whistle as he steps closer, hands on his hips, assessing me. “You’re really not okay, huh?”
“Wow,” I deadpan. “With diagnostic skills like that, why aren’t you in med school?”
He grins, unbothered. “Come on. Let me help you back.”
I consider telling him no, because accepting help feels like admitting defeat, and I’ve had enough of that today. But my ankle throbs again, and the last thing I want is for Rowan to find me exactly where he left me. So, I nod once.
Camden crouches beside me, sliding an arm carefully under my shoulders and helping me stand. His grip is gentle, the kind of touch meant to be noticed. Still, I let him. Because right now, it’s easier to pretend I’m fragile than admit I’m furious.
We slowly walk back toward the main house, the trail winding through the trees.
“You don’t have to hover,” I say when Camden’s hand tightens around my waist again. “I’m injured, not concussed.”
“Just being thorough,” he replies, smirking. “Besides, if I’m going to play hero, I might as well commit.”
Heaven help me.
By the time we reach the wraparound porch, I’m regretting everything: this walk, this conversation, this entire timeline of poor judgment that apparently led me here. Camden guides me to a cushioned bench and jogs inside, returning a minute later with a small first aid kit and smugness.
“You know,” he says, crouching in front of me and flipping the latch open, “Rowan doesn’t exactly seem like the nurturing type.”
I shrug. “He’s not.”
“You’ve got an interesting dynamic.”
“Do we?”
He raises a brow as he begins wrapping my ankle. “I mean, he looked ready to kill someone at dinner last night. And you? You were two seconds away from pouring wine down his shirt.”
I keep my face still. “We’re both dramatic.”
“Or just unresolved.”
Before I can reply, the door creaks behind us.
A voice cuts through the air, older, and silkier.
“Well. If it isn’t the lady of the hour.”
I look up.
A partner.
Harlan Masden. Late fifties, slick hair, and a smile that isn’t very friendly. He steps onto the porch with the kind of calm authority that doesn’t need volume to be dangerous. One look and it’s clear: This is a man who ends careers with less effort than most people use to sign their name.
Camden straightens immediately, posture tightening. I don’t move. I just adjust my expression, slotting into the version of myself that looks composed, even when my heart is doing damage control.
Masden’s gaze flicks from Camden to me, then down to my ankle. “Everything all right?”
I flash him a practiced, polite smile. “Just a minor sprain. Nothing serious.”
He steps closer, eyes sharp as he studies me, and I can feel the weight of it, the assessment behind the courtesy. “You and Mr. King have certainly made an impression this weekend. Quite the pairing.”
“That’s kind of you to say.” My voice is steady.
“It’s rare to see him involved,” he says, tone dipping just enough to suggest interest. “I always wondered if he had a weak spot.”
