Trapped by the Devilish King

"Huh?" Camila was dumbfounded, blinking in confusion at him with a face full of disbelief. "I can't leave? What do you mean?"

Her heart was thumping like crazy. This guy brought her back to his estate-did he never plan on letting her go in the first place?

Camila suddenly remembered that look he gave her in the elevator last night. That gaze... weirdly intense.

Maybe he really did mistake her for someone else?

And now he was stopping her from leaving... could it be related?

Her brain felt like it couldn't keep up anymore. Ever since that elevator broke down, it's like she got caught in some bizarre trap.

Nope, she couldn't stay here. No matter why this man was trying to keep her in, she had to get out.

Her gut was screaming danger-big, flashing red light kind of danger.

Trying to collect herself, she swallowed hard and forced her voice to steady. "Look, I really do have stuff to take care of. Not messing with you-I need to go. See..."

"I'm not joking." Prescott cut her off coldly.

His sharp features were tense, and the icy look in his dark eyes locked onto her like a threat. There was this quiet pressure about him, intimidating even when he wasn't saying a lot.

He leaned in slightly, eyes skimming her tense face. His voice was smooth but carried a dangerous undertone.

"I suspect you're a hitwoman sent by one of my enemies. So tell me-how could I possibly just let you leave?"

The way he said it, so casual, like discussing the weather-but to Camila, it was a bomb straight to the face.

She froze. Eyes wide. Completely stunned.

What. The. Hell?

A hitwoman? Seriously?

Was he out of his mind?

She thought he might make up some random excuse, but this? This was a whole new level of insane.

Fighting to keep her cool was pointless now. She looked at him like he'd grown another head, voice rising in disbelief.

"Me? A hitwoman? Do I look like one to you? Look at me! If I were really a killer, don't you think I'd have done something to you last night? Your enemy must've hit their head if they sent someone like me-I'm so weak I probably couldn't even win in a pillow fight. And you saw with your own eyes-I couldn't even handle a gun! If I'm an assassin, then the whole world's got superpowers."

She rambled on, practically fuming. Prescott's logic was so ridiculous it made her want to laugh-and cry-at the same time.

She resisted the urge to roll her eyes so hard they'd fall out. Was he blind? Seriously needed a doctor if he thought she was some threat.

Suddenly, she felt a wave of chill air bearing down on her. Her body stiffened, and when she looked up, his face was right there, up close.

And yeah, sure-he was ridiculously, unfairly good-looking. Like, to a criminal degree. But damn, the way he was looking at her right now? Terrifying.

Camila instinctively stepped back, swallowing again. "W-What are you doing?"

Prescott didn't say a word. Just closed the space between them in a flash, cornering her against the railing.

His tall figure loomed over her, arms landing on either side of her in a textbook wall slam, caging her in completely.

Camila wasn't short-she was a solid 5'5"-but next to Prescott, she looked tiny, like she could be blown away by the wind.

Her nerves were shot, the tension in the air almost suffocating. That invisible pressure coming off him? Overwhelming.

Her heart drummed so loud she could practically hear it echo, and her knees... well, they were threatening to bail on her altogether.

Pull it together, Camila! Don't let him win!

She gave herself a mental pep talk, gritted her teeth, and pushed against his chest, trying to get him to back off.

But Prescott had already seen it coming. With a swift move, he grabbed both her hands, twisted them behind her back.

She yelped, pain shooting up her arms, and instinctively tried to kick him-but before her foot could land, he locked her in place with his legs.

Camila's face flushed red with rage. "You jerk, let me go!"