Chapter Twenty: Damn Him

Myra barely slept.

After seeing those paintings, after hearing King say You're my muse, there was no way in hell she was going to wake up feeling normal.

She had come here to steal a damn necklace, not to be confronted with some weird, obsessive fairy tale where she was the main character in King's dreams.

And now?

She was stuck spending the entire weekend with him.

Great.

---

By morning, she had calmed down—or at least, she thought she had.

She walked into the dining hall, still dressed in one of King's oversized T-shirts and some shorts she had borrowed. She froze the moment she saw him.

King sat at the head of the table, one leg lazily crossed over the other, sipping his coffee like he didn't have a single care in the world.

Like he hadn't completely messed with her head last night.

"Morning, darling," he greeted, lips curling into that infuriating smirk.

She ignored him.

Instead, she sat at the farthest possible seat and grabbed a croissant, tearing into it like it had personally wronged her.

King chuckled.

"You're avoiding me," he said, tapping his fingers against his mug.

"No, I'm just allergic to narcissists," she muttered, chewing angrily.

"Ah, so it's an allergy now," he mused, setting his coffee down. "Interesting, because last I checked, you were staring at those paintings for quite a while last night."

Her grip on the croissant tightened.

She glared at him. "Are you expecting a thank you?"

King leaned forward, resting his chin on his palm. His lapis blue eyes gleamed.

"Not at all," he said, his voice dropping lower. "I was just wondering which one was your favorite."

Myra choked on her food.

She grabbed her water, taking a quick sip as King laughed, clearly enjoying her suffering.

"Go to hell," she grumbled.

"Already on my way, sweetheart," he shot back.

Her face burned at the nickname.

She hated when he called her that.

Because every time he did… it felt dangerously natural.

She stood up, pushing her chair back. "I'm going to get dressed. And when I come back, you better act like a normal human being."

King smirked. "I'm not a normal human being, though."

Of course he wasn't.

She stormed out, knowing damn well he was still watching her leave.

---

An Hour Later

By the time she got back downstairs, King was waiting by the front door.

He had changed into a black coat over a white shirt, his hair lazily tousled but still annoyingly perfect.

"We're going out," he announced, tossing her a helmet.

Myra barely caught it. "Excuse me?"

He motioned to the motorcycle parked outside. "We're going on a ride."

She squinted at him. "Why?"

King grinned. "Because I want to see how much you learned from our race. And because," he stepped closer, tilting his head, "you need a distraction."

Myra bristled.

"I don't need a distraction," she snapped.

He shrugged. "Whatever helps you sleep at night."

She was about to argue—but then she paused.

A ride didn't sound like a bad idea.

It would get her out of the house, away from his stupid smirk, and—most importantly—away from those paintings.

She sighed.

"Fine."

King smirked, handing her a leather jacket.

"Try to keep up, darling."

---

The roads were empty this early in the morning, the sky still painted in soft hues of pink and gold.

The wind rushed against her skin as she gripped the handlebars, following close behind King as they sped down the winding roads leading out of the city.

She hated to admit it, but—

This felt amazing.

The roar of the engine beneath her, the rush of adrenaline in her veins—she felt free.

King glanced back at her, smirking.

Then, without warning, he sped up.

Oh, hell no.

Myra gritted her teeth and pushed forward, chasing after him.

She saw the challenge in his eyes.

The way he was teasing her, daring her to keep up.

Her competitive side kicked in.

She raced after him, pushing past every doubt, every hesitation.

For a moment, there was only the road, only the wind, only the rush of the moment.

And for once—

She forgot everything else.

---

By the time they stopped, they were on a cliffside overlooking the city, the view stretching out for miles.

Myra pulled off her helmet, breathing hard, her heart still racing from the thrill of the ride.

King leaned against his bike, watching her with a small smile.

"You're getting better," he admitted.

She rolled her eyes. "Is that your way of saying I almost beat you?"

He chuckled. "Not even close, sweetheart."

She shoved him, and he laughed, catching her wrist before she could pull away.

His fingers lingered against her skin for just a second too long.

Her pulse skipped.

She yanked her hand back.

"Thanks for the ride," she muttered, looking away.

King exhaled, raking a hand through his hair.

"I meant what I said, you know," he said suddenly.

She frowned. "About what?"

"About you being my muse."

Her breath caught.

She turned to face him, only to find him already looking at her.

Serious.

Uncharacteristically sincere.

There was no teasing in his voice.

No smirk.

Just truth.

"Myra," he said quietly, "I'm not giving up on you."

She froze.

Her throat went dry.

Because he wasn't saying it like a challenge.

Or a game.

He was saying it like a promise.

A warning.

A fact.

And for the first time—

She had no idea what to say back.