Kayden's POV
The paint on the canvas was a blur of soothing colors, a mess that somehow made sense to me. It was one of the few things that could quiet the noise in my head. I let out a sigh, dipping my brush again. I bet if my childhood hadn't been... what it was, I could've been a real artist. But that was a silly dream for another life.
My thoughts drifted, like they always did, to Eleanor. I could feel it—a sharp, prickly anger coming from her direction all day. But why? What did we do now? It makes me feel bad.
I just want us to be close, for real. Not this game. It hurts that she only seems to want the version of me she meets at the club. That really does hurt.
I glanced at the clock. Sir Alfred should have brought my phone back by now. I stood, wiping a hand on my paint-stained jeans, and went to the door. I felt a presence on the other side and pulled it open, expecting Alfred.
It was Eleanor.
