He puts another bandage on my hip with the same meticulous care as before, his touch gentle, almost reverent. This time, I don't flinch. I watch him, studying the way his large hands move with such precision, the intensity in his eyes. He is tending to his creation.
Afterward, he leads me not to the office, but directly to the new wing. My wing. My studio.
The transformation is complete. The vast space is no longer dusty and empty. It is pristine, gleaming. A massive easel stands in the center, already holding a blank canvas. Tables are laden with every conceivable art supply, paints in every shade imaginable, brushes of every size, charcoals, pastels, sketchbooks, and reams of paper. The scent of fresh wood and oil paint fills the air, a heady perfume of possibility.
A small, elegant kitchen is tucked into one corner, fully stocked. A luxurious bathroom, complete with a walk-in shower and a deep soaking tub, is in another. And in a secluded alcove, a plush, oversized chaise lounge, piled with furs and pillows, beckons. It is a sanctuary, a fortress, and a workshop, all rolled into one.
"This is all yours," Kaden says, his voice filled with pride. "Anything else you need, you only have to ask."
I walk to the easel, my fingers tracing the smooth, clean canvas. This is where it begins. This is where the masterpiece will be born.
"I need a mirror," I say, my voice quiet but firm. "A very large, very old mirror. One that has seen many things. One that has heard many secrets."
Kaden's eyes narrow slightly, a flicker of curiosity. "A specific kind of mirror?"
"Yes," I confirm, turning to face him. "One that will show me the truth. One that will show me Evilin. And one that will show me how to destroy her."
He studies me for a long moment, his gaze intense, searching. He sees the cold fire in my eyes, the unwavering resolve. He sees that I am no longer just seeking vengeance. I am seeking absolute annihilation.
A slow, dangerous smile spreads across his face. "Consider it done, my queen."
He walks to the biometric scanner by the door. He presses his thumb to it. The green light flashes, and the heavy oak door swings open. He steps out, but before the door closes, he turns back to me.
"Remember, Wynter," he says, his voice a low, possessive rumble. "Your place is here, in your studio, during the day. But at night, your place is with me. In my bed. By my side."
I meet his gaze, a silent promise passing between us. "Always," I confirm.
The door closes, the soft click echoing in the vast space. I am alone. Truly alone, for the first time since I arrived here. But this time, it is not the terrifying loneliness of a prisoner. It is the exhilarating solitude of a creator.
I walk to the easel, my hand reaching for a charcoal stick. The canvas beckons. Evilin. Her face. Her fear. Her inevitable downfall. It will all be rendered here.
I am Wynter. Queen of the shadows. Artist of vengeance. And Kaden, my king, has just given me the tools to paint my masterpiece.
Kaden
The moment the studio door seals behind me, the soft hum of the biometric lock a final click on Wynter's new world, my own world snaps back into sharp, ruthless focus. The tenderness, the vulnerability I allow myself with her, recedes like a tide. Wynter is safe, for now. But safety is a temporary state in my world, a constant battle against a thousand unseen enemies.
I pull a secure, encrypted tablet from my inner jacket pocket, its screen glowing with a dozen alerts. My thumb swipes through the notifications, each one a thread in the intricate web of my empire. A shipment delayed. A rival makes noise in the Southern territory. A new contact requests an audience.
"Alrik," I bark into my comms, not even waiting for him to acknowledge. My voice is a low growl, stripped of any affection, pure command. "Status report on the North End shipment. Any complications? Good. I want eyes on it until it's delivered and confirmed. If there's so much as a hiccup, I want to know before it happens. And the new contact from Vegas? Vet them thoroughly. I don't need any more loose ends."
I pause, leaning against the reinforced wall of the hallway, the cold steel a familiar comfort against my back. My thoughts, however, are already drifting back to the studio, to Wynter.
"And about that mirror Wynter requested," I continue, my tone shifting, though the underlying authority remains. "I need a discreet team. The best. No questions, no chatter. Just get it done. The older the better. I don't care about the cost, only the speed and the silence. And I want it delivered directly to her studio, no one else touches it."
My empire never sleeps, and neither do I. Wynter is my heart, but the Deadly Seven is my blood, the very thing that ensures her safety, and mine. Every piece of this fortress, every man, every brutal deal, every whispered command, is ultimately for her. To protect her. To keep her. To ensure that no one, ever again, can touch what is mine.
Forty Four
Kaden
Theheavyoakdoorclicks shut, and the soft hum of the biometric lock is the sound of my world shrinking to the size of this room. The silence that follows is vast, a stark contrastto the storm of emotion and sensation that has defined the last twenty-four hours. For the first time, I am not a captive in a cell, but a queen in her sanctuary.
I walk to the massive easel, the blank canvas a stark white promise. My fingers, stained with the memory of charcoal, trace its smooth surface. This is where it will begin. My vengeance. My masterpiece.
I spend hours just exploring my new domain. I run my hands over the pristine tubes of oil paint, a rainbow of potential violence. I test the weight of the brushes, the sharp edges of the palette knives. These are not just tools for creation; they are my weapons. Kaden has given me an arsenal, and I intend to use every piece of it.
I start with charcoal. I don't draw Evilin's face, not yet. I draw the feeling of her. The suffocating grip of her hand on my throat, the cold, dead weight of her jealousy. The canvas becomes a storm of black and grey, a vortex of rage and pain. I work until my muscles ache and my fingers are raw, pouring every last drop of my hatred onto the canvas.
