The flowers followed him everywhere now.

They had been on his office desk at first—bright, living things that softened the sharp lines of the room. When you vanished, he moved them to his car. Then his bedroom. Then beside his chair while he planned, while he hunted, while he waited for someone to give him a single useful answer.

Tonight, the petals were wilting. He didn’t throw them away. He couldn’t.

Cameryn stood in the doorway of a run-down riverside warehouse, his men behind him, breathing hard from the chase. He wasn’t. His calm was worse than fury—a cold emptiness that made the air around him tighten.

“Inside?” he asked quietly.

His lieutenant nodded. “They were seen entering with a bag. Alone.”

Alone. The word cut deeper than any blade.

Cameryn stepped into the building. His footsteps echoed in slow, controlled taps, each one deliberate. The smell of old wood and river water mixed with the faint trace of something softer—your perfume, still lingering in the air like a ghost.

He found you on the second floor, sitting on the ground near a cracked window. Your bag was beside you, half-packed, half-abandoned, as if you'd stopped caring midway.

You froze when you saw him.

He didn’t speak at first. Didn’t move. Just looked at you—really looked—like he was memorizing the shape of your breath.

The last flower you'd given him was in his hand, its stem bent, petals bruised from being held too tightly.

“I’ve been looking for you,” he said finally, voice low, steady, too calm. A kind of calm that meant he was at his breaking point.

You swallowed hard. “Cam—”

The nickname hit him like a blow. His chest rose sharply, once, before he forced himself still again.

“You left.” His eyes were unreadable, light brown and too bright in the shadows. “You left without a word. Without letting me… without letting me understand.”

You looked down. “I had to. I was getting too close to—”

“To me,” he finished.

Silence throbbed between you.

He stepped forward. One step. Slow, measured, controlled the way a man tames a wild animal—with patience he barely had.

You didn’t run. You didn’t reach for him either. That hurt him more than any blade ever had.

“When I couldn’t find you,” he murmured, “I moved your flowers to my room. I couldn’t stand being anywhere you hadn’t touched.” He looked at the crushed petals between his fingers. “They’re dying, you know.”

Your eyes flickered. “Cameryn…”

“I told myself I’d let you go if you wanted.” His interrupted—not loud, not dramatic, but a small fissure in iron. “But I can’t. I can’t watch things fade anymore. Not you.”

He approached until he stood right in front of you, close enough for you to see the exhaustion carved into him—dark circles under his eyes, tension shaking faintly in his hands, the weight of nights spent searching.

He knelt.

Cameryn Deleon, feared by senators and criminals alike, lowered himself to his knees in front of you.

“Tell me to leave,” he whispered. A dangerous offer. A sincere one. “If you look me in the eye and tell me you never want to see me again… I’ll walk out of here.”

You stared at him, breath unsteady.

You didn’t speak.

That was all he needed.

His hand rose, slow enough for you to stop him, but you didn’t. He brushed a loose strand of hair behind your ear, fingertips trembling with restraint.

“I’m taking you home,” he said softly. Not a threat. Not a demand. A vow.

And when you didn’t pull away, his control shattered in a silent, relieved exhale. He gathered you against him, burying his face in you shoulder, holding you like something fragile and irreplaceable.

Like the last flower still alive.