Chapter 113
Camila POV
I shot him a look. “One more word and I’m throwing something.”
He chuckled and walked toward me, barefoot now, stepping lightly through the grass. “I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable earlier, he said as he sat beside me, close enough that I could feel the warmth radiating off him again. “I didn’t mean to–well. No. That’s a lie. I meant to. But I didn’t mean to freak you out.”
I stared at him for a moment, then looked away not saying a word.
Not because I didn’t want to, but because I didn’t know what to say.
We sat there for a while. The breeze rustling through the trees. The sun slowly sinking. Everything was quieter now, like the world had paused just for us.
Eventually, I turned to him, “You’re the one cleaning up that orange juice?”
He grinned. “Okay.”
That night, I couldn’t sleep for shit.
I just laid there, flat on my back, eyes wide open as I stared up at the ceiling. It was just a boring, plain ceiling that probably hadn’t been cleaned since 1990. Every little creak in the house made me flinch like I was about to be ambushed. A tree branch hit the window? I nearly jumped out of my goddamn skin. The pipes groaned? Full–body goosebumps. My nerves were so fried I was practically sizzling.
It was like my body remembered the blood, the screams, the stench of death soaked into the mansion walls–even though Ethan had cleaned it all up like it never happened.
I kept trying to get comfortable. Tossed to one side. Then the other. Pulled the covers off. Pulled them back on. Kicked my leg out of the blanket because it was hot. Yanked it back in because I suddenly remembered how horror movies start.
God, I hated how quiet it was.
I hated how loud the quiet felt.
I pressed the heels of my palms into my eyes. This was so stupid. I wasn’t going to fall asleep. My brain was doing that thing where it looped every bad moment in my life like it was trying to torture me. There was no winning. Just endless reruns of trauma.
My chest ached in that heavy, anxious way, like I needed to scream or cry or punch a wall–but doing any of those things would make me feel even more like a lunatic. I just… I didn’t want to be alone.
And god help me, the only person I trusted enough right now to be around was the very psycho–werewolf–stepbrother that gave me 70% of my issues in the first place.
I stared at my door for a long time.
I even sat up. Then sat back down. Then got up and paced the room like an idiot. Then sat again.
Just go, I told myself.
But that little voice in my head was like, you’re gonna look desperate. You’re gonna look so fucking desperate.
Well maybe I was. So what? I’d seen things that would make a therapist cry. I’d earned the right to be desperate.
1/3
Chapter 113
So I stood, padded over to the door, and cracked it open. The hallway outside was dim. Just the pale blue light of the moon leaking through the windows. It was dead silent. Too silent. Again with the creepy silence. I hated this place.
I tiptoed down the hall like some kind of cartoon character, stopping at Ethan’s door. My hand hovered over it for way too long before 1 finally knocked–soft. Almost unsure.
I heard movement on the other side. A pause. Then footsteps.
When the door opened, Ethan was standing there shirtless, and my brain had the audacity to short–circuit.
Nice.
Just what I needed. Emotional instability and now a half–naked werewolf.
His expression shifted the second he saw me–his usual laid–back grin melting into confusion. “Camila?”
I cleared my throat, suddenly unsure why the hell I was doing this. “Uh… Can I come in?”
He blinked, surprised. His brows tugged together like he was processing. Then he stepped aside and nodded. “Yeah, of course.”
His room smelled like him. That woodsy scent that made my chest tighten. And also… alcohol?
That’s when I noticed the bottle in his hand. Whiskey or scotch or something dark and probably way too strong to drink straight. A half- empty glass sat on the nightstand. The bottle glinted in the moonlight.
He was drinking.
I don’t know why that caught me off guard. Maybe because he always acted so composed–too composed for someone who clearly wasn’t all there. Seeing him drink was weird. Humanizing. A reminder that, even though he was a supernatural creep with an obsession for me, he still had his own demons.
“Didn’t peg you for a drink–at–night–alone type,” I said, trying to keep my voice casual as I shut the door behind me.
He gave a breathy chuckle and sat down on the edge of the bed, swirling the liquid in his glass. “You’re not the only one who can’t sleep.”
I hovered awkwardly by the door, arms crossed over my chest. “Yeah well… it’s hard to relax when your house turns into a murder scene.”
He flinched slightly but didn’t argue. Just took another sip. “You can sit. I’m not gonna bite.”
I gave him a look. “I mean… that’s debatable.”
That made him grin, and I hated that it made my stomach twist. I reluctantly walked over and sat at the edge of the bed, leaving a very respectable distance between us.
“Do you think they’ll come back?” I asked quietly, eyes fixed on the floor.
He didn’t answer right away.
“I don’t know,” he finally said. “I hope not./But the agency… they don’t give up easy.”
My shoulders slumped. “Fantastic.”
