Total pages in book: 61
Estimated words: 58377 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 292(@200wpm)___ 234(@250wpm)___ 195(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 58377 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 292(@200wpm)___ 234(@250wpm)___ 195(@300wpm)
I secure the hatch, triple knot a length of paracord through the interior lock, and cinch it tight. That hole is plugged.
Back upstairs, I log findings, set extra cameras on the east wing, then stop outside Cam’s door, listening. Soft music filters through—jazz, slow and sultry. I imagine her curled under silk, lashes fanning her pink cheeks, unaware of the storm gathering.
I turn away. Protect, don’t covet.
0345 hours: I’m on the balcony outside my room, the moon lighting up the ocean waves. The night is cool, salt tang on the air. Somewhere inside, an antique clock chimes four. Footsteps approach—bare and light.
I pivot. Cam stands in the doorway of my balcony, robe cinched, braid loose, eyes drowsy. “Couldn’t sleep?” she whispers.
“Patrol.” I nod toward the grounds. “Secured a vulnerability.”
She hugs herself against the chill. “You’re relentless.”
“Occupational hazard.”
She steps closer until the moon outlines her face. She’s luminous. “Thank you,” she says simply.
“For?”
“Caring whether I wake up tomorrow.” Her hand lifts, and brushes the sleeve of my shirt as it lingers. Heat blooms.
“I’d like you to wake up every tomorrow,” I admit.
Silence stretches. Her gaze drifts to my mouth; mine to hers. The world narrows to the silver flecks in her irises, the cinnamon scent of her skin.
I step back. “Go inside, Cam. Get some rest.”
She studies me a beat longer, then nods. “Good night, Sawyer.”
“Night.”
She slips away.
I exhale the breath I didn’t know I held, then key the radio to silent mode. One more sweep before dawn. Whoever’s hunting Camille Kingsley has no idea the predator now guarding her door is hungrier than they are.
Let them come.
By the time the first blush of sunrise bleeds over the ridge, I’m still awake—wired, focused, and unwilling to admit that the real reason sleep eludes me is a barefoot artist with paint under her nails and the power to redraw every line I thought I’d etched in stone.
4
Camille
The morning sun pours molten gold across my bedroom ceiling, but it’s Sawyer’s knock—precisely 07:00—that drags me from a tangle of linen and half-remembered dreams. I expected him, however still, the punctuality is almost comical. My guardian gargoyle runs on military time and roasted coffee.
“I’ll be five minutes,” I call through the door, hopping into linen pants splattered with last night’s cobalt.
“You said that ten minutes ago,” he rumbles back—amusement threaded through the warning.
I crack the door, toothbrush jutting from foamy lips. “Creative types can’t be rushed.”
“Security protocols can.” He thrusts a travel mug my way. “Lemon ginger tea. Edgar swears by it.”
The gesture tugs a smile from my sleepy face. “You bribed Edgar for intel?”
“I might have.” His eyes sweep the room behind me, already cataloging threats that don’t exist. “Three minutes, Cam.”
We’re in his Range Rover by 07:30, barreling toward Mission Heights Elementary—one of those turn-of-the-century brick fortresses saved from demolition by a coalition of stubborn parents and crowdfunded miracles. The district cut arts funding years ago. Today's workshop keeps creativity alive on a shoestring and a prayer.
Sawyer drives, posture textbook perfect. His black polo strains across shoulders sculpted by sins I’m willing to confess later. He scans each intersection, eyes flicking like chess pieces.
“Relax,” I tease, propping paint-stained sneakers on the dash. “We’re headed to finger-paint central, not a war zone.”
“Complacency is the real war zone,” he counters, but those glacier-gray eyes warm around the edges.
I study him while he studies everything else—the faint scar at his brow, the disciplined set of his jaw, the way his right index taps the steering wheel every seven seconds exactly. A metronome disguised as a man.
“You tap when you’re thinking,” I observe.
He arches a brow. “You clocked the timing?”
“Artists notice rhythm.”
A corner of his mouth curves, as if he’s surprised by the fact that he’s smiling.
Mission Heights bristles with morning energy—teachers corralling coffee, kids in neon sneakers, the custodian singing Motown under his breath. Sawyer sweeps ahead of me, ID badge clipped to his belt. He checks perimeter doors, bathroom windows, even peeks behind a stack of janitorial bins. It should annoy me, but watching that precision in motion is… distracting.
“Clear,” he announces after fifteen minutes, rejoining me outside Room 12—ART LAB stencilled crookedly on peeling paint.
Inside, twenty teachers wait at battered plywood tables. Mason jars overflow with brushes; recycled yogurt tubs brim with cheap acrylics. Sunlight spills through high windows, dust motes dancing like lazy confetti.
“Morning, everyone!” I clap, electricity zipping through me the way it always does before I throw a party on canvas. “Today we’re exploring under-painting and glazing—think of it as the secret love affair beneath every masterpiece.”
A ripple of excited chatter. I introduce Sawyer—“extra set of hands, makes a mean security perimeter”—and field the predictable jokes about bodyguards and dangerous easels. He acknowledges them with a dip of his head, eyes already mapping exits.
We dive in. I demonstrate layering burnt sienna beneath translucent ultramarine to birth impossible purples. The teachers—my people—laugh when my hands fly, gasp when pigment blooms across wet paper like living flame. And always, always, I feel Sawyer’s gaze: steady, supportive, searing imagination into the small of my back.