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My Parasite: Come willingly, or I stop being polite and come collecting you.

My prince: You’re not collecting me.

My Parasite: Then walk there yourself.

I lock the screen so hard I nearly crack it and shove the phone back into my pocket. Only then do I realize I’ve gone too quiet.

Alya glances at me. “Are you okay?”

I force my face into something neutral. “Yeah.” I’m not sure she believes me, but she’s kind enough not to push. I push my chair back. “I have to go.”

Her mouth softens. “Now?”

“Yeah. Sorry.” I lean down and kiss her cheek before the guilt can get any worse.

My father doesn’t ask where I’m going. He rarely does unless he thinks my business will embarrass him publicly. Which is probably for the best, because I’m currently going to see the exact man he’s trying to sell my sister to. I’d love to know what his reaction would be if he found out. Probably something between a heart attack and murder.

My brother, naturally, is less generous. He sets down his glass and looks at me directly. “Where are you going?”

“Have to go see Dimitri. Something came up.”

He gives me a long look that says he knows that’s not the full truth. Alya just says, “Don’t start a war.”

I smirk. “No promises.”

Then I turn and head for the door before anyone can ask anything else. I arrive at the address he sent me. The building sits on a side street. I stop on the sidewalk, stare up at it, then push through the door.

Inside, the place looks less like a house and more like an art museum. The ceilings are ridiculously high, and enormous canvases line the walls. Every single one is covered in white cloth. Landscapes, maybe. Bodies, possibly. Something deeply fucking cursed? Honestly, wouldn’t surprise me. Farther in, I spot sculptures covered the same way, the fabric clinging to every curve and edge. My fingers itch to rip every single covering off and see what the hell is underneath, but I don’t have time for an impromptu art exhibition. I’m here for one person. Find him. Leave. Preferably before I accidentally uncover something I can’t unsee.

I walk deeper, past the shrouded displays, until I reach a single door left slightly ajar. I push it open and step inside. An art studio. Worktables scattered with tools, brushes, chisels, jars of pigment, rolls of canvas. More shapes under sheets. I take two steps in, scanning for any sign of movement, when a voice slides in behind me and a hand touches my shoulder.

“Hello, my love.”

I flinch hard and step away. My pulse jumps into my throat before I even manage to spin around and face him.

I don’t like being touched from behind.

I hate it.

“Don’t sneak up on me.”

He tilts his head, studying me. “I missed you too,” he says fondly. “You came.”

“Not by choice.” I fold my arms before he can notice anything else traitorous about my body. “Why did you ask me to come here?”

Instead of answering right away, his gaze drops.

Straight down.

I realize, a second too late, what he’s looking at.

Shit.

My entire body goes rigid.

Because yes, there’s an obvious problem happening in my pants, and yes, I hate myself for it, and yes, this is officially the worst night of my life.

Kento’s eyes darken with interest.