KAYROS'S POV
I wake up to the absence of Odette's body pressed against mine. The first thing I feel is panic—a cold, sinking dread that sends my heart to my stomach.
I'm out of bed in an instant, my bare feet thudding across the marble floor. The 32nd-floor penthouse is silent, the arched windows framing a sky bleeding orange and red over London. The peace feels foreign, mocking.
And then I hear it—the soft ripple of water from the indoor pool area.
My chest loosens as I see her floating on the surface like some serene water goddess. Her black hair fans out around her, eyes closed, expression relaxed. Dewy and calm.
I exhale deeply and crouch at the pool's edge. "You scared me."
The corner of her lips twitches. She doesn't open her eyes, but that playful expression tells me she's about to tease me in a way that will make me want to strangle her.
"I swear if you—"
"Tell me something," she cuts in, eyes still closed. "Didn't you say you hate me, hm?"
My words stick in my throat. For a long moment, all I can think is how ridiculous my actions have been—contrary to everything I've claimed.
I press my knuckles to my mouth, inhaling sharply, trying to regulate the burning sensation spreading from my chest to my face.
And of course, she doesn't miss her chance.
She swims toward me, sleek and fluid, her back muscles flexing with each stroke. My eyes widen slightly as she reaches the edge, her face now just inches from mine.
Odette smirks.
Dangerous, I think. But I can't look away.
My gaze traces every curve of her face—the soft arch of her brow, the faint shadows of exhaustion beneath her eyes, the warmth of her skin in the morning light.
"I'm sorry."
The words leave me before I can think.
Odette's eyes open, wide with surprise. And for the first time, I notice something: her eyes aren't the exact shade of hazel-green that Ophelia's were. They're lighter, warmer, flecked with amber. Her pupils are darker, slightly larger.
It's a subtle change—one only someone who has memorized Ophelia's face would catch. And to me, it feels like a whisper from somewhere deep, a truth I refuse to admit.
Odette. Ophelia. Why do they feel like the same person, split into two souls?
Her voice cracks slightly. "Why?"
She sounds like someone who's learned not to hope, not to show weakness. My chest aches remembering how bitterly she cried in my arms just hours ago.
Why am I sorry?
Sorry for being late.
Sorry for not finding you faster.
Sorry for failing to protect you.
Sorry for my confusion.
Sorry for everything.
Sorry for nothing.
It all feels like an excuse. A way to run from the turmoil inside me.
Instead of answering, I lean closer, giving her time to pull away if she wants to. She doesn't.
Her breath catches as my lips meet hers—soft, warm, tasting of chlorine and something uniquely her.
Water ripples around us. My hand cups her jaw, tilting her head gently as I deepen the kiss. She gasps softly, as if surprised by the tenderness.
For a moment, I let myself feel her. Let the confusion inside me go quiet.
When I pull back, I rest my forehead against hers. Her eyelashes brush my skin.
"Kayros…" she whispers, breathless.
I hum in response.
She pulls back just enough to meet my eyes, worry clouding her expression. "You attacked the Dimitris."
I nod.
"Aren't you scared? I'm not saying you aren't strong, but Black Widow is violent. Timofey won't sit back. And you used Sarah as leverage against the Medicis…"
My eyes soften. She's worried—about me. A strange, warm flutter stirs in my chest.
No one's ever really worried about me before. They've always assumed I'm strong. Invincible. Even in my past life, Ophelia treated me like a fortress that could never break—until I broke, failing to save the ones I loved.
Odette notices my gaze and stops, frowning. "Are you even listening?"
I nod.
Her frown deepens. "It doesn't seem like it. Why aren't you saying anything?"
That almost makes me laugh. As if she'd listen if I did.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, but this moment feels too fragile, too warm to break just yet.
"I am Kayros Nathaniel, ma chérie," I say, as if that explains everything.
She rolls her eyes, as if my title means nothing against the real danger.
"Kayros Nathaniel is a human, not a fortress."
My chest tightens—not with panic or anger, but with something unfamiliar, something tender.
I don't realize I've been holding my breath until my phone buzzes again.
Odette leans closer, her expression firm. "I won't let anyone or anything harm you."
I laugh—amused, light, the corners of my eyes crinkling. My grin widens when she gasps, accusing me of not taking her seriously.
For someone who was just kidnapped by the Medicis, she's remarkably brave.
"Get out of the pool," I say, standing. "We need to go to your family's house."
"I don't want to," she mutters, pouting like a scolded child.
I raise an eyebrow, clasping my hands behind my back. "Yes, you are going home, Ms. Blackwood."
She looks up at me, her eyes suddenly glassy—not with tears, but with something she doesn't want to admit.
My smile fades. "Hey. Are you scared to go back?"
She doesn't answer, but her eyes say everything.
"I'm not returning to the Blackwood house," she mumbles finally. "They didn't have any guards assigned to me. That's how Gabriel got in."
She gulps, as if saying it aloud costs her something more than fear.
My hand itches to pull her against me, to wrap myself around her like armor.
My eyes darken. "You don't have a single personal guard inside the mansion?"
She shakes her head, small and certain.
I curse under my breath, my jaw tightening. I'd had my suspicions, but this confirms it. And Raphael Blackwood has the audacity to act enraged by her disappearance?
My phone buzzes again.
"Okay," I say, my voice low.
Odette looks up, shocked. Her lips part, but I cut her off before she can speak.
My gaze lingers on the small wound on her neck—a mark that feels like a brand against my own skin.
"Get ready," I command, my tone dark. "We're getting married in two weeks."
Her eyes widen.
I lean down, cupping her jaw, my grip firm. "You're mine to protect from now on. Do you understand?"
Her pulse jumps beneath my thumb. She nods, her throat working silently.
Raphael Blackwood… you were always a bastard of a father, but to think you'd neglect your own daughter's safety—
I force myself to breathe. To calm down.
You can't scare her more.
Not when she's finally here.