Angel's POV
Sunlight filtered through the chalet curtains, soft and lazy, but I barely noticed it. My head throbbed—not from the campfire, but from the whirlwind of heat, tension, and adrenaline that lingered from last night.
King's grip on my wrist, the dark intensity in his eyes, the way he'd guided me safely through the night—it replayed in my mind, making my chest constrict and my stomach twist.
I pushed myself up, stretching cautiously, feeling the warmth of the polished wooden floor under my bare feet. The chalet smelled faintly of fresh linen and wood polish, grounding me for just a moment. Comfort, however, was fleeting—King's presence was still fresh in every nerve, and that comfort was inextricably tied to him.
By the time I emerged, Lisa and Kelly were already mingling with other students. Their smirks were subtle but knowing.
"Morning, Angel," Lisa said casually.
"Coffee?survived the night?"
"Barely," I muttered, adjusting my bag. My cheeks burned at the teasing, though it was playful rather than cruel.
Kelly's smirk widened. "You're… affected. Must've been an intense night."
I groaned, hiding my face behind my water bottle. "You two are relentless."
Lisa chuckled. "Just…don't faint today. You've got enough on your plate without him around."
Their teasing dissolved as the group prepared for the morning assembly. And King? As expected, he was absent, though I felt his absence like a ghost hovering nearby.
Breakfast was quiet and functional. I clutched a mug of tea, scanning the cluster of instructors and sponsors at the long table.
Then I saw him. King. Arms crossed over a tailored jacket, jaw tight, moving with the precision of a man used to command.
He glanced at me briefly, and I felt the air constrict—the look was sharp, assessing, impossibly broody. Not warm. Not indulgent. Just…imperious.
My mug clenched slightly in my hands as I reminded myself: he was busy, a multibillionaire, a high-ranking officer. Last night might have been a one-off indulgence. Nothing more.
The outdoor activities began, dragging us into the rugged terrain. Steep trails, uneven paths, and obstacle courses tested endurance and coordination. Lisa and Kelly were graceful, but I stumbled constantly. A misplaced step sent me tumbling into a patch of brush. Concerned glances followed, but I laughed it off nervously. My sneakers were muddy, my muscles screamed in protest, and I felt utterly exhausted.
King was nowhere in sight, and part of me felt relief—but another part of me ached. A gnawing pang of frustration: why wasn't he here to supervise, to protect, to…care?
Finally, the group gathered near the central fire pit. Hands on hips, panting, chatting, some nursing minor scrapes. I leaned against a tree, trying to ignore the stickiness of mud on my socks.
And then he appeared.
No grand entrance. No announcement. Just him—standing at the edge of the group, dark eyes scanning the exhausted students until they settled on me. Instantly, all other sound and movement faded. My chest constricted, heat blooming across my skin. His gaze lingered on me, calculating, almost predatory.
He noticed everything: the mud on my shoes, the sweat on my brow, the fatigue etched into my posture.
My normally poised frame looked vulnerable, small—and it lit a fire in him. Protective. Possessive.
He strode toward me, wordless, commanding without a word.
"Angel," he said, low, clipped, dangerous.
"Come with me."
"I—" I stammered, panic lacing my words. "I can walk back to—"
"No." The single word carried weight, leaving no room for negotiation. Not a request. A command.
My pride bristled, yet every fiber of me leaned toward him. His presence was gravity, unrelenting. We moved silently toward the chalet, my steps tentative. Every glance at him, every brush of heat from his body, reminded me I was utterly exposed.
He'd wordlessly picked up my supplies backpack, slinging it over his shoulder. My jaw went slack.
"You… don't have to—" I whispered.
"Yes, I do," he said, voice tight, nearly a growl, though tempered with care I couldn't deny.
"I am not going to watch you struggle through this without tending to you when I can."
Shock, frustration, embarrassment—all collided in a dizzying storm of sensation. But beneath it, a strange thrill pulsed. He cared enough to orchestrate this: to see me safely settled, to guard me, to act.
"King—" I started, but he interrupted, voice soft yet firm.
"You're exhausted, Angel. Fight me all you want, but I will not stop caring for you."
His hand brushed mine as he handed over my bag, lingering in a gentle, deliberate touch.
My breath caught. Words failed me. I wanted to argue, to assert my independence, yet the heat in his eyes and the authority in his stance rendered me mute.
Inside the chalet, the familiar scents enveloped me. I turned back,finally daring a glance at him.
"So you're just doing everything for me now?" I muttered, half-teasing, half-exasperated. "Mixed signals, much?"
A faint smirk tugged at his lips, softening the broody mask. "I'm not doing this to confuse you. I'm doing it to protect you. I don't like leaving you exposed."
Protect. Care. Possess. They tangled together in my chest, pulling me taut.
"I—" I tried again, struggling for independence. "I can manage—"
"No." His single-word refusal was unyielding. He stepped closer, dark eyes softening just enough to betray a flicker of vulnerability. "Not like this. Not when I'm around."
I let out a shaky breath. My hands twitched, unsure whether to feel triumphant or frustrated. He radiated control, yet a tender protectiveness threaded through his sternness.
"Fine," I muttered. "But don't think I'll get used to this you."
"I want you to get used to it," he replied, low, almost a growl I could feel in my chest.
"I want you safe. No arguments. No tantrums. No defiance that puts you at risk."
The precision of his words, the weight behind each one, made my heart hammer. I wanted to push boundaries, just to see him tighten, to see him prove the extent of his control.
As he turned to leave, the heat didn't fade. The smoldering tension, the unspoken hold he had over me, pressed against every nerve. Then, sensing my hesitation, he glanced back over his shoulder.
"You'll be fine," he said, voice low, dark, and deliberate. "I'll check in later. Don't do anything reckless. Understand?"
"Yes," I whispered, breathless, flustered, undone.
And just like that, he was gone—leaving me standing in the chalet, aware more than ever that nothing in this camp, nothing in my life, would ever be the same.
The door clicked softly behind him. My pulse raced. The warmth of his touch, the weight of his words, the intensity of his gaze—they lingered.
Every instinct screamed that this dynamic—the caretaker, the protector, the brooding force that King was—was far from over. And somewhere deep in my chest, I knew I wouldn't resist it even if I wanted to.