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I remain motionless in the doorway, watching her work like I do so often now.

The brush moves with thoughtless precision between her fingers, dragging deep blues and stark blacks across the canvas in strokes that aren't careful or controlled, but messy and forceful. Wild. She's bleeding out everything she doesn't know how to say—every scream she buried, every truth she wasn't allowed to speak. The colors clash rather than blend, dark layered over darker, forming angles that shouldn't work but somehow do.

This isn't just a painting. It's a confession she doesn't even realize she's making.

And it's fucking beautiful. Unsettling. Raw.

I allow myself another moment of watching before I turn away, pulling my phone from my pocket as I move down the hall. It rings once before Sebastian answers.

"Beck." His voice is low, alert—he already knows this isn't a social call.

"I'm gonna need your help," I say, keeping my voice steady.

A beat of silence passes between us before he exhales heavily.

"Tell me when."

"Soon," I say. "I'll send details tomorrow. Make sure everything's in place."

"Are we talking security or something more?"

"Both. The usual team, plus additional measures." I pause, glancing back toward her studio. "And Sebastian? Complete discretion."

"Have I ever given you less?" He chuckles softly, but there's an edge to it. He understands the gravity without me spelling it out.

I end the call but remain in the hallway, listening to the faint scrape of her brush adding another layer to the painting. Sebastian didn't ask questions beyond the basics—he never does. He knows the difference between my tones, between chaos and calculation. He knows I only ask for help when I'm already building something I don't want interrupted.

And this isn't just about protection. This is about precision.

She's still painting when I tuck the phone away, still lost in her work, still unaware of what's shifting beneath her feet. That's good. She needs the space, but she also needs to be moved—not just physically, but mentally and emotionally.

I've watched her settle into this place like it's safe, like Iwon't burn it to the ground the second it stops serving her. She doesn't know I've decided to take her away from here—not because she's in danger, but because I want her away from anything that might try to convince her she's anything but mine.

The property is already secured—north of the city, remote, expansive, surrounded by woods. Private. The light there will be perfect for her painting. The quiet will give her mind space to breathe. The studio overlooking the trees will give her somewhere to put all this emotion she's been carrying.

I'll let her think it's about peace, about recovery. I'll let her settle into the illusion that this is just another act of generosity. But we both know better.

I don't give people things. I place them where they need to be.

Chess pieces on a board.

When I finally decide to make my presence known, I stand quietly in the doorway. She glances over her shoulder, brush still poised in midair, eyes guarded but curious. I don't step inside—I don't need to. She already feels it—the shift beneath the surface of my calm, something coiled and waiting.

"How far along is that one?" I ask, nodding toward the canvas.

She blinks, as if surprised by such a mundane question. "Almost done."

I nod once, studying the chaotic arrangement of colors. "You'll finish it when we get there."

Her head tilts slightly, wariness creeping into her expression. "Get where?"

I move closer then, just a single step, but it's enough to make her spine straighten—enough to remind her what I am when I want something.

"We're leaving in two days," I say, my voice betraying none of the anticipation building beneath my skin.

The brush lowers slowly as she processes my words. "Leaving?"

"Temporary. Quiet." I hold her gaze. "Somewhere no one can reach us."