Chapter 8

Estelle's POV

Saturday morning, I stood outside Alpha Bruce's door clutching the East Wing access card so tightly the edges were starting to bend.

Last night Logan had asked me what I was doing this weekend.

I'd told him I'd found a part-time job as a photography assistant.

He hadn't suspected a thing—just smiled and ruffled my hair, saying if it got too exhausting I should quit, that he could give me money.

I'd shaken my head then, my voice barely above a whisper. "No need. I can earn it myself."

Now, thinking back on those words, they felt like a thin wire tightening around my throat.

On one side was my identity as Logan's girlfriend. On the other, I was hiding from him while working as his uncle's assistant.

One wrong step, and I'd fall hard.

When the butler led me into the East Wing study, Alpha Bruce wasn't there yet. His desk was piled high with thick stacks of photographs, weighed down by several folders. The moment I sat down, my nose caught the faint residue of gunpowder clinging to the paper—subtle, cold, and bitter.

All the photos were ones he'd taken at the border.

Ruins left behind after bombardments. Gun barrels protruding from broken walls. Patrolling soldiers. Military boots sunk into mud. And near the camp's edge, tropical flowers blooming with an almost violent brightness.

I began sorting the photos one by one, organizing them by location, time, and content. As my fingertips moved across those images, my movements grew slower and slower.

One showed a ruin charred black.

Another captured a soldier still standing guard, his body covered in blood.

And there was one where the flowers bloomed too vividly, the bombed-out fence visible just behind them.

I stared at those flowers, my chest tightening until it ached.

So this was the kind of place he'd been.

So those scars and that cold hardness he carried weren't something that had appeared out of nowhere.

Near midday, I heard the sound of a wheelchair gliding across the floor outside the door.

My spine went rigid, and I straightened immediately.

Alpha Bruce wheeled himself into the room wearing a black dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, several old scars standing out starkly against the smooth skin of his forearms. He swept a glance over the desk, his ice-gray eyes landing on the photos I'd sorted.

"Good work on the classification."

I kept my head down and murmured softly, "Thank you."

I didn't dare look at him.

I only heard the wheelchair slide to the adjacent table and stop, followed by the successive rustling of paper being turned. The study fell into an oppressive silence—nothing but the friction of pages and my own increasingly erratic heartbeat.

Gradually, a scent of cedarwood began to permeate the air.

Faint, but I caught it instantly.

The skin at the back of my neck felt as though it had been lightly scalded by heat, tingling finely. Instinctively, I hunched my shoulders, my fingers pressing harder against the corners of the photographs.

Midway through, I came across a photo that had been set aside separately.

In it, Alpha Bruce wore combat fatigues and stood at the entrance to a camp, sunlight falling across the side of his face. In that instant, the coldness in his expression had eased just slightly, making his features appear even more sharply defined.

He looked beautiful.

The thought surfaced before I could stop it, and my heart gave a violent lurch.

I stared at that photograph for too long—so long that I didn't even notice when the sound of turning pages in the study had stopped.

Not until a low voice dropped right beside my ear.

"Do you like this one?"

I flinched so hard I nearly dropped the photo.

I snapped my head up, only to realize Alpha Bruce had wheeled himself right next to me at some point. He was too close—close enough that I could see the faint glimmers of light reflected in those ice-gray eyes beneath his lashes.

"N-no," I stammered, shaking my head as my ears burned hot. "I just thought it was really well taken."

Alpha Bruce looked at me, and then, suddenly, he smiled.

It was a shallow smile, but it was like watching a crack split across a sheet of ice.

I froze.

This was the first time I'd ever seen him smile.

Those eyes that were usually so frighteningly cold seemed to have melted just a little, the light in them falling on my face and burning so hot it threw my breathing off rhythm.

Alpha Bruce reached out, plucked the photograph from my hand, glanced at it once, then handed it back to me.

"If you like it, keep it."

He paused, his voice dropping lower.

"Don't tell anyone."

I stood rooted in place, fumbling as I took the photo back, my fingertips still trembling when they touched the paper.

"Th-thank you."

I couldn't even lift my head anymore.

That evening, back in my dorm, I slipped the photograph into my own photography album.

I lay in bed tossing and turning, unable to fall asleep no matter what I tried, until finally I reached up and touched the back of my neck.

There was nothing there, but every time I got close to Alpha Bruce, that patch of skin would grow inexplicably hot.

My fingertips froze abruptly, as if burned by my own thoughts, and I quickly pulled my hand away.

Don't let your mind wander.

I'm Logan's girlfriend.

Alpha Bruce is Logan's uncle.

There can't be anything between us.

Just then, my phone buzzed.

I reached over and picked it up. The screen lit up—it was a message from Alpha Bruce.

[Tomorrow when you're sorting the photos, bring the materials from the border troops as well.]

I stared at that line of text for a long time, long enough that the screen nearly dimmed on its own, before I slowly typed back a single word.

[Okay.]

After sending it, I set my phone face-down on the pillow, but the jumbled heat in my chest didn't dissipate in the slightest.

The next day when I returned to the East Wing, I froze the moment I stepped into the study.

There was a brand-new professional camera sitting on the desk.

The black body rested there quietly, the packaging not even fully removed, as if it had been deliberately waiting for me to arrive.

Alpha Bruce sat in his wheelchair, flipping through documents without even lifting his head.

"I heard from Logan that you've always wanted a full-frame camera," he said. "This one's for you. Consider it a work benefit—it'll make it easier for you to photograph materials."

I recognized that camera.

I'd looked at it in stores many times. The price was so high that even asking about it felt extravagant. I'd been saving for half a year and still didn't have nearly enough, not even for the lens.

I shook my head almost immediately.

"I can't accept this." I clutched the materials I was holding tighter, my voice strained. "It's too expensive."

Alpha Bruce finally looked up at me, his brow pressing downward.

"If I'm giving it to you, take it."

I still didn't move.

"It's a work necessity."

I bit my lip, my toes frozen in place.

The next second, he closed the file in his hands, his tone going flat and cold.

"Or would you rather I tell Logan about how you've been disrespecting me?"

My chest constricted sharply, the air suddenly pressing down so heavily I couldn't breathe.

I stared at that camera, my nails digging deeper and deeper into my palms, until finally I walked over and pulled it into my arms.

"...Thank you."

Alpha Bruce's gaze lingered on my hands gripping the camera, and the corner of his mouth lifted ever so slightly.

"Leave early today," he said. "I'll have the driver take you back to campus."

I said nothing, only gave a quiet murmur of acknowledgment.

All afternoon, I held that camera like I was holding a burning coal. The tighter I gripped it, the more wrong it felt.

But I still didn't let go.

By the time I left the East Wing that evening, the sky had already darkened, and the wind tugged lightly at the hem of my skirt. I walked out clutching the new camera, my chest tight the entire way, as if something were slowly winding itself around me, pulling tighter and tighter.

I had just reached the entrance to my dorm when my steps came to an abrupt halt.

Logan was standing there.

His sand-gold hair was slightly tousled by the wind, and those cobalt-blue eyes first landed on my face before slowly sliding down to the new camera in my arms. His brow furrowed bit by bit.

"Estelle," he said, his voice not heavy, but cold enough to send a chill straight down my spine. "Where did that camera come from?"