Trapped by the Devilish King

"Camila, you're not going anywhere unless I say so. Got it?"

A faint scent drifted off her skin, hitting his nose. Prescott's eyes darkened, and the tone in his voice sank lower, edged with threat.

Camila's chest tightened under that stare. She turned her head away, her voice next came a little icier. "This is illegal detention. It's a crime. You're not even scared I might call the cops?"

Was he really that fearless? Or did he just assume she wouldn't dare?

"Who said I'm detaining you illegally?" he shot back, eyes full of mocking amusement. "Killers aren't exactly under police jurisdiction, you know."

Insane!

What killer? Her?!

If she were really here to take him out, would she be standing here talking nonsense with him? She would've knocked him out by now.

"Why are you even locking me up? I don't even know you. You must have a reason, right? Just tell me," Camila said, frowning, her voice quieting down into something calmer.

"I already told you-I think you were sent to assassinate me."

Seriously, what was the point of this conversation? Clearly their brains weren't wired the same way.

Prescott seemed to notice just how pissed off she was. He finally let go of her wrist and turned toward the dining table.

When Camila stayed frozen where she was, clearly stunned, his deep voice rolled back toward her. "Prescott Ellington."

"Huh?" She squinted slightly, not hearing him clearly, eyes locked on his proud, retreating figure.

"My name. Prescott. Remember it."

There was no room for argument in his tone-he made it sound like an order.

*****

After a tasteless breakfast that felt like chewing on cardboard, Prescott brought Camila to the medical wing.

Calling it that didn't do it justice-it was practically a mini hospital, massive and decked out with high-end medical equipment.

A few doctors hurried over the second they saw him, respectfully greeting, "Sir."

Prescott gave a casual nod, but his eyes landed on Camila, who was curiously looking around. He told the doctors flatly, "Check her wrist first."

Hearing that, Camila snapped out of her daze, turning toward him. Her jet-black eyes widened slightly in surprise-he was actually paying attention to that?

She hadn't expected the guy, who was all aggression and control, to suddenly show this kind of quiet concern.

Honestly, her wrist had been aching this whole time. But she'd been too busy trying to get out to really care. Her plan was to deal with it later at a hospital. Yet here he was, bringing it up first.

She parted her lips, staring at his chiseled, unreadable face, unsure what to say.

Thanks? Kind of hard to say thank you when he was the reason her wrist was hurt in the first place.

Mad at him? Oh, definitely. Being locked up here like some criminal-it would be weirder if she wasn't angry.

But... his attitude now? It might've chipped away at some of her fury. Just a bit.

"Yes, sir," one of the doctors answered.

Some of them glanced at Camila again, clearly noticing she wasn't just anyone to Prescott.

A female doctor helped her get an X-ray. When Camila's pale arm stretched out, the bruised, swollen skin around her wrist stood out harshly under the fluorescent light.

Prescott stood right by her side the whole time, glancing down at her hand-those dark eyes flickered, tension tightening at the edges.

He knew full well he was the one who did that.

He'd gone through training since he was a kid-his grip strength was way more than average. That injury had to hurt like hell.

This woman had serious tolerance. Not bad.