Chapter 7

I desire the things that will destroy me in the end.

— Sylvia Plath

CAMELLIA

I was exhausted.

“Good job, ladies!” I called, clapping lightly as the teen dancers caught their breath. Their giggles echoed through the mirrored studio, sweat gleaming on flushed cheeks. Pride shone on their faces, and that made every ache in my back worth it.

Maybe this job wasn’t so bad after all.

The music faded. I stretched, groaning as my spine popped. My ponytail was limp, leggings past. their prime, but I didn’t care. This place quickly became my safe place.Inside these walls, I was just the instructor helping teenagers move without shame. For the first time in days, that was enough.

My brain had been politely ignoring everything from two weeks ago from the severed finger to Lucien’s sudden appearance and my deadbeat father’s bite mark that looked suspiciously canine.

And mostly? That damn dog I was stupid enough to approach.

No wonder white people die first in horror movies.

“Same time next week,” I added as they trickled out.

The studio hummed with leftover energy. I wiped my brow, glanced at the clock—one hour until, I had to pick up Lilah.

I reached for my water bottle. A prickle crawled up my neck.

The scent of pine and sandalwood wasn’t strong, just faint enough to make my pulse skip. I turned sharply. Nothing. No tall shadow, no hazel eyes,just old linoleum floors and peeling paint.

Before I left home this morning, there was a single rose tucked between my door and the frame but I already knew who it was from.

Lucien.

It was subtle, almost sweet.The words “I apologise for my behavior” were scribbled on a tiny paper curled inside the petals.

It should’ve made me feel better,relieved even. He was backing off and finally giving me space. I should have exhaled, but I didn't.

Instead, my fingers kept brushing over the edges of the note.

I wasn't supposed to crave someone I'd barely spoken to or feel watched like this.

My feet found rhythm again followed by my hips, each turn draining my overthinking brain and filling my lungs with calm.

My mind unintentionally drifted to Darius. Not directly or fully. Just the echo of his voice, the memory of his gaze. I danced through it, letting the beat carry me further away from thought.

Then a voice cut through the music, sharp and familiar. “Camellia?”

I froze mid-twirl.

Marcus King had the same easy grin, same messy hair, same leather jacket that had been cool at seventeen and was stubbornly clinging to relevance. My stomach did a familiar flip at the sight of my first boyfriend and only heartbreak.

“Marcus,” I said, offering a small, cautious smile.

“Still gorgeous,” he said, eyes lighting up. “Thought you’d moved away.”

“Still around,” I replied, tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear.

His gaze dipped, lingering just a second too long before snapping back up to meet mine. “We should catch up sometime. Grab a drink. For old time’s sake.”

No, I don't really drink with people who made me cry in the school parking lot then proceed to send the photos I gave to you to the entire school.

I don’t think I’m much fun these days,” I said, the words feeling brittle on my tongue. I forced a polite smile, but my stomach was a tight knot of old memories.

A sudden chill settled between us, even before I registered the tall shadow.

He wasn’t even looking at Marcus when he came to stand beside me, hands in his pockets, shoulders loose but radiating something that made Marcus take a half-step back.

Darius’s gaze slid to him,calm and unblinking. “She’s busy.”

Marcus’s grin faltered. “Right. Yeah. See you around, Cam.”

He turned and walked off, quick like he’d suddenly remembered an appointment across town.

Darius didn’t watch him go. “Friend of yours?”

“Ex,” I said, adjusting my bag.

“Hm,” he murmured, almost to himself. “Poor taste.”

Sunlight made his blonde hair gleam like polished gold and his green eyes held that same calm fire. He lifted a gloved hand in a casual wave, like he hadn’t just appeared randomly.

“What are you doing here?”

He shrugged casually. “I may or may not have gone through a few procedures to find you.”

Wipe that shit-eating grin off your face, Camellia. Men stalking you aren't supposed to be attractive.

But there he was standing there like he didn’t just confess to mildly criminal behavior, and somehow make it sound charming.

"Well, you’re here a second too late," I said, glancing at the clock. "I have to go pick up my little sister”.

He tilted his head, unfazed. "So I’ll come with you."

I blinked. “What?”

He shrugged again, already moving toward the door like it was settled. "I came all this way".

I didn’t move right away. My brain flickered through a list of reasons to say no. All of them sounded reasonable from boundaries to caution and self-preservation.

Was this another trap or was he really just decent?

I let out a breath and grabbed my keys.

"Fine," I muttered, brushing past him. "But if you so much as breathe weirdly around my sister, I’m pushing you into oncoming traffic.”

What’s the worst that could happen?

Lilah came bouncing out, her backpack almost swallowing her whole, grinning as she rushed towards me.

She slowed, frowning slightly, her eyes flicked between me and him. Her fingers moved swiftly.

“Who’s that?”

I opened my mouth but before I could answer, he crouched slightly and signed “ Hi. I’m a friend of your sister’s”.

Lilah responded immediately, hands flying excitedly. Instead of fumbling or asking for help like most people, he kept up effortlessly communicating with her like he’d done it a hundred times.

I watched in quiet awe as she giggled and signed something back at him, which earned her a real, belly-deep laugh.

Yep,leave it to me to feel a certain way because a man knows how to talk with his hands.

By the time we reached my front door, Lilah was skipping ahead, while he hung back with me, hands in his pockets, like this was the most normal day ever.

“She likes you,” I said quietly, still processing everything.

He glanced at me with a grin. “She clearly has taste.”

I rolled my eyes, even as my lips twitched. "Thanks for walking us home.” I murmured, pausing at the steps.

He mimicked a bow, teasing “Anytime”

He turned and walked away with his hands in his pockets and shoulders relaxed after speaking,like he hadn’t just casually wormed his way under my skin with a couple signs and an annoyingly effective smile.

—------------

Lilah had fallen asleep hours ago in her bedroom, curled up with her favorite worn-out blanket.

I lay on my back in my bedroom, phone abandoned by the side, the quiet pressing in around me.

My elbow brushed my chest accidentally at first, then again, slower this time.

A ripple of heat shot through me, sharp and impossible to ignore. My pulse quickened under the thin fabric of my top.

God, I was touch-starved.

I slid under the covers, letting my fingers roam, teasing the slope of my stomach, tracing edges I hadn't memorized in months.

A soft groan slipped past me. I clutched at the sheets, desperate for something solid in the storm building inside.

Darius.

He came to mind with ease ,the way his eyes had lingered just long enough to feel like sin, his gloved fingers brushing mine with a gentleness that felt almost out of place.

I imagined him leaning in, voice smooth and low, telling me how good I was doing. He’d say it slowly and mean it.

My hand moved faster,deeper. Chasing the promise of release.

I held onto Darius's voice, the gentleness in it but another was already crawling under my skin, his hands gripping my thighs with a grip that was more pleasure than pain.

But the fantasy shattered, pierced by a different kind of heat. It was a raw, insistent burn, the memory of Lucien’s hands,not touching me, but possessing me.

His grip was a demanding pressure on my thighs, more pleasure than pain, pulling me into a memory that felt too real.

I gasped, caught between fight and surrender.

The contrast from the safe fantasy, the dangerous pull made my fingers move faster. My hips rose to meet every imagined stroke. He was right there, in my mind, in every ache, every shiver.

“You’re so easy for me,” his voice murmured, low, teasing, dangerous.

A soft needy groan slipped out of me.

I cupped my breast,my thumb brushing over my nipple once, my fingers pinching the hard nub.

It was already sensitive, peaked and aching from the memory of eyes that didn’t belong there.

His voice was not gentle but raw and low like it had been dragged from his chest , replacing the softness with something darker.

His hand slid lower until it gripped the soft flesh just above my thigh in a firm manner. Like he wanted me to feel exactly where he’d been long after he let go.

I clenched, panting, caught between fight and surrender.

No matter how hard I tried to hold onto the safe fantasy, Lucien tore through it faster, stronger, hungrier.

I added another finger , desperate and slick with want. I spread my legs wider, letting the sheets bunch around my knees, hips rising to meet every needy stroke like it was him touching me.

I imagined him watching, voice low, cruelly amused. “You’re so easy for me,” he’d murmur.

“Can’t even touch yourself without thinking of me, can you?”

My body answered for me.

"Lucien," I gasped, the word tearing from my throat as I came, breathless and undone, his name the only thing that made it past the haze.

I lay there, chest heaving, pulse slowing, caught between relief and longing.

The memory of both men lingered, pulling me into a complicated tangle of desire I wasn’t ready to untangle, not yet.