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That night, I find Camille alone in our room. I pause in the doorway, studying her. She’s in a pair of cotton shorts and a tank top, her hair in a messy bun, a glass of wine held between both hands. She’s watching TV and texting with someone—probably Ophelia.
I smile to myself. I like that she made a friend, and a decent Greek girl from a friendly family. I hate that Camille’s been stuck in here, but I’ll admit that life has been easier ever since she gave up fighting me about the diner.
Only things have been strained. We don’t fight, but we don’t talk, either. I crave the taste of her lips against mine, my fingers dimpling her soft skin, her moans hot in my ear. I want her legs wrapped around me and her skin flushing as she comes, hot and sweaty.
Most of all, I want her. Purely her.
“Asteraki mu.”
She starts and looks over at me. “When did you get there?”
“A few minutes ago.”
“Are you creepily watching me?”
“Not creepily, but yes.”
“Seems creepy to me.” She stretches and finishes her wine. “What can I do for you, Evander?”
I look at her big eyes, at her thick hair, at her mouth. At the engagement ring on her finger. At the lack of a wedding ring.
“Come with me.” I turn toward the hall.
“Not thanks. Bravo’s got a marathon going and—”
“It’s not a request,” I say firmly, pausing to glare at her. “Come with me.”
She rolls her eyes. “The macho controlling asshole thing isn’t really my bag. Can we do this later?”
“Camille.” I speak through my teeth. This girl drives me insane when she wants to. “Please.”
“There we go,” she says, climbing to her feet. “Suddenly he gets polite.”
“I could walk over there and throw you over my shoulder.”
“How very caveman. Yawn.” She walks over, grinning, and her smile melts some of the frustration. “Where are we going?”
“I want to show you something.” Nerves jangle in my core as I lead her into the hall. “I don’t think you’ve seen this yet and I thought—” But what am I thinking? Why am I doing this now?
It was the conversation with my mother. But it’s more than that—it’s the way I’ve been feeling, it’s the rings, it’s the danger.
Every night that I go out with my gun and my soldiers, there’s a non-zero chance that I won’t return.
I don’t want to die without telling her the truth about me.
She must sense my mood because she stops making jokes. I take her on a twisting path to a different wing of the house, a wing that isn’t used much anymore. My mother’s room is at the very end, but I pause in front of the first door, a door I’ve passed through thousands of times in my life. But one I haven’t used in a while.
“This was my room before I became lord,” I say, staring at the knob.
“Oh.” Camille stands close to me. “What are we doing here?”
“You’ve heard things about me.” I push the door open. “I want to tell you the truth.”
The room is empty. No furniture, nothing on the walls. Hardwood floors swept clean. Windows with the blinds drawn. There used to be life here, my life before I took on the responsibility of the entire family.
Now it’s empty.
“Nice space,” she says, looking around. Her words echo off the emptiness.
