Chapter 370

Camille's breath hitched, her lips pressing into a tight line as she fought to stay silent.

One of the foreigners turned to Arnold with a sneer. "Who the hell are you? This isn't your fight—back off!"

Arnold smirked, unfazed. "Wasn't my business until I saw it. Now it is."

Damn.

The way he stood there—confident, unshaken—sent a jolt through Camille.

Evadne's brothers weren't just handsome. They carried themselves like royalty, sharp-edged and untouchable.

And Arnold? The way he shielded her, the way his voice dropped low—dangerous—made her pulse spike.

"You got a death wish?" The second foreigner snarled, signaling to his men. "Get rid of him!"

Arnold's expression hardened. "Try it."

Within seconds, bodyguards swarmed from the shadows, surrounding them.

Camille's stomach lurched. These weren't just hired muscle—they moved like professionals.

Arnold's jaw clenched. He hadn't brawled in years, but Emeric had drilled combat into all his children. Still, outnumbered like this?

"Arnold, go!" Camille's voice cracked. "Get out of here!"

His gaze locked onto hers. "Not without you."

Then he lunged.

The first two bodyguards went down before they could blink. Arnold moved like lightning, his strikes precise, brutal.

Camille barely had time to gasp before another guard raised an iron rod behind him—

"No!"

She shoved forward, crashing into Arnold just as the rod swung.

A deafening crash echoed.

The attacker crumpled, a metal trash can rolling beside him.

Camille's vision swam. When she looked up, Elvis stood there, hands in his pockets, grinning.

"Took you long enough," he drawled.

Arnold exhaled sharply, his grip tightening around Camille. "Elvis—"

"Go." Elvis cracked his knuckles. "I'll handle cleanup."

Arnold didn't argue. He scooped Camille up and bolted.

Outside, the night air was sharp against her flushed skin. Arnold flagged a cab, bundling her inside.

"Your brother—" Camille stammered.

"Elvis can take care of himself." Arnold shrugged off his jacket, draping it over her trembling shoulders. "He's been itching for a fight."

Camille swallowed hard. "Those men... they're connected. They won't let this go."

"Which is why you're not going home alone." Arnold's voice left no room for argument.

Her eyes widened. "What?"

"My place. Until this blows over."

Camille bristled. "I don't need a babysitter."

Arnold leaned in, his breath warm against her ear. "You nearly got dragged into a backroom tonight. Forgive me if I don't trust your judgment right now."

The driver cleared his throat. "Where to, lovebirds?"

Arnold rattled off an address.

Camille's nails dug into her palms. "This is kidnapping."

Arnold smirked. "Call it protective custody."

The cab pulled away, leaving the chaos behind.

Camille huffed, crossing her arms. "You're insufferable."

Arnold's gaze darkened. "And you're reckless."

Silence stretched between them, thick with tension.

Then, quietly, Camille muttered, "Thank you."

Arnold's fingers brushed hers—brief, electric. "Don't make a habit of needing saving."

She glared. "Don't make a habit of playing hero."

The corner of his mouth lifted. "Too late."

The city lights blurred past, but all Camille could focus on was the heat of Arnold's hand, still wrapped around hers.

And the unsettling realization that she didn't want him to let go.