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Klaus's POV
The past few days have been sheer torment. Her presence is a constant reminder of both agony and an inexplicable warmth that I struggle to comprehend. Yet, I endure solely because of Elijah's promise of allegiance in exchange for my assistance to Selene.
As Elijah pursues leads on Katerina, I'm confined to this place, biding my time while my minions scour for the elusive Petrova girl. I cannot deny Elijah's request; his words are ironclad, and his methods are precise.
Speaking of my mate, our interactions are strained and distant. We prefer the solace of our respective chambers; the silence is broken only by the occasional presence of my brother. I find refuge in my art - painting, drawing - while wondering about her activities behind closed doors. Perhaps she delves into her witchcraft, honing skills that both intrigue and unsettle me.
Elijah insists on shared meals, a ritual I detest. The sight of her, the woman whose mark I bear on my chest, finding joy in my brother's company, is a bitter pill to swallow. It fuels a conflict within me, one where loyalty to family clashes with the turmoil of emotions I cannot fully grasp.
Yet, for the sake of alliances and the fragile balance we maintain, I endure these torturous days, longing for resolution, but bound by duty and the complexities of our intertwined fates.
I gaze out of my window at the setting sun, realizing that Elijah has been absent all day, and with him, I haven't seen her either. A twinge of paranoia grips my stomach-could she be plotting against us? She wields formidable power as a witch, and her seclusion could be a cloak for collaboration with my adversaries, conspiring against me and my family.
The mere thought ignites a surge of irrational anger and a sense of betrayal. Determined to confront her and make clear the consequences of any such treachery, I rise from my seat and stride purposefully towards her room.
I pound my fist forcefully against her door, the sound reverberating through the silence of the corridor. Impatience claws at me; why is she taking so long to answer? Is she concealing something from me? I draw my fist back to strike again when the door finally swings open, revealing a sight I hadn't realized I was yearning for all day. Her mouth opens in surprise at the sight of me, and I find myself lingering on her face a moment too long before a familiar glare settles upon her features.
"You really have no patience, do you?" she retorts, her voice trailing off slightly.
But her words fade into the background as a familiar scent reaches my nostrils - the unmistakable aroma of paint. My nose wrinkles instinctively, and I force my gaze away from her to peer inside her room. The lingering scent confirms my suspicion. She has been painting.
"Is that paint?" The question escapes my lips before I can catch myself.
The realization that she has been inside, creating art, ignites a surprising warmth in my chest, a sensation I rarely allow myself to acknowledge. It's a comfort, unexpected and unsettling. For a moment, the tension between us softens, replaced by a tentative understanding.
