After their sumptuous dinner, they began the cleanup. They collected the trash, buried the bones from the beef stew, and gathered the used utensils and cookware. Then, they split the tasks: Peony went down to the river to wash the dishes, while Tobey stayed behind to prepare the "studio" for his portrait.
Of course, he waited until Peony's figure disappeared into the darkness before he made his move.
He reached into his inventory. In a blink, an easel, a canvas, a palette, and a set of high-grade paints materialized. His plan was ambitious: a realistic oil painting. It would be his first-ever serious piece of art in this world.
Just as he finished setting up the lighting by the fire, he heard Peony calling his name from the riverbank.
"Tim! I'm done washing the dishes. Help me carry these!"
"Wait! I'm coming!"
He moved quickly, jogging down the trail to the water. He couldn't help but chuckle when he saw her. Her face was wet, her clothes were damp and clinging to her skin, and wet strands of black hair were plastered across her eyes. She looked like a wet, adorable kitten.
"Are you tired?" he asked, brushing the hair from her face.
She smiled innocently and shook her head. "No, not really. Do we still have dirty dishes? Because I still have more energy to spare."
Tobey laughed at her response—and the hidden meaning behind it. He reached out, tugging her chin up gently, and planted a kiss on her lips. Then, he pulled her closer by the back of her head, deepening the kiss until the world spun around them.
When they broke apart, Peony slapped his arm playfully. "I almost ran out of breath!"
Tobey just laughed, stealing one last quick peck on her nose.
"Come on."
He gathered the clean utensils and cookware, lifting the heavy stack effortlessly with one arm while guiding her with the other. They walked back to the campsite, the sound of the river fading behind them.
After the chores were done, they took a bath together.
It was supposed to be a quick wash, but with the warm water and the privacy of the forest, they couldn't keep their hands off each other. The bath quickly turned into a few rounds of steamy intimacy. If they didn't have a schedule to keep, they surely would have spent the rest of the night tangled together.
"How about we move our scheduled portrait session?" Peony murmured, her hand tracing the muscles of his chest as they dried off.
Tobey shook his head, continuing to wrap a soft white robe around her naked body.
"Sweetheart, I can't. That would be unprofessional," he teased, his voice low. "It's bad for my business. Moreover, you're my first-ever client. So we have to follow the schedule."
"Fine." Her shoulders slumped in mock defeat.
"Don't be sad. I promise, I will do my best work."
Tobey finished tying the sash of her robe, securing it at her waist. They were now matching, both wearing thick white robes that hid their bodies but hinted at the intimacy they had just shared. He held her by the shoulders, steering her toward the fire.
"Right this way, Your Highness. The studio is ready."
Tobey guided her to the spot he had prepared. He had arranged a makeshift platform using a flat log covered with a thick, soft blanket near the fire, ensuring she would be warm and the lighting would be dramatic.
Peony stood by the makeshift dais. She took a deep breath, her eyes locking with his. There was no hesitation, only a quiet, burning trust. She untied the sash of her white robe and let the fabric slide off her shoulders, pooling like a cloud around her feet.
She stepped onto the blanket and settled into the pose.
It was a seated position, her legs extended but slightly bent at the knees, creating a long, elegant line. She didn't need instructions on how to be modest; her body knew the language of grace naturally.
She let her long, raven-black hair drape forward, the thick silky strands cascading over her shoulders to veil her breasts but a few corners were still showing. Her left hand rested naturally on her hip, her fingers draping down to casually cover the V of her thighs.
She looked like a forest nymph, or perhaps a goddess from an old myth, bathed in the golden glow of the campfire.
Tobey stood behind his easel, staring at her. For a moment, he couldn't move. He wasn't looking at her as a lover—though the desire was there, simmering deep in his chest—he was looking at her as an artist. The way the firelight danced on her skin, the contrast of her dark hair against her pale complexion, the curve of her waist... it was perfect.
"You are..." Tobey started, his voice rough, before clearing his throat. "You are a masterpiece, Peony."
Peony blushed, her gaze lowering shyly, which only made the pose more alluring. "Less talking, more painting, Mr. Artist."
Tobey chuckled, the sound breaking the trance. He picked up his palette and brushes. The scent of linseed oil and turpentine mixed with the woodsmoke of the fire.
"Yes, ma'am."
He began to work. His hand moved with surprising confidence for a "first timer," though his System was likely guiding the technical strokes. He mixed ochre and burnt sienna to capture the warmth of her skin in the firelight. He used lamp black for the shadows of her hair.
The silence of the forest was heavy and intimate, broken only by the crackle of the flames and the soft scritch-scratch of the brush on the canvas. Tobey was completely absorbed, his brow furrowed in concentration, trying to do justice to the woman in front of him.
He worked with a feverish intensity, his eyes darting between her curves and the canvas, mapping out the play of light and shadow on her skin.
Peony, despite the stillness required of her, couldn't help but let her eyes wander. She watched his face, serious and intense, and then her gaze drifted lower. The white robe he wore had loosened slightly as he sat on the log, the fabric parting just enough to reveal that his focus wasn't entirely innocent.
There was a distinct, hard dick tenting the fabric at his lap. He was visibly, undeniably aroused, and he wasn't making any effort to hide it.
A mischievous smile tugged at the corner of her lips.
"Mr. Artist," she purred, her voice dropping to a sultry whisper. "It seems your 'brush' isn't the only thing standing at attention."
Tobey didn't even blink. He didn't adjust his robe or look embarrassed. He simply dipped his brush into the crimson paint, his jaw tightening just a fraction.
"Don't move," he commanded, his voice rough and strained, lacking its usual playfulness. "Or you'll ruin the angle."
"I'm just saying," she teased, shifting her weight ever so slightly, causing her hair to sway over her chest. "It looks like you're suffering over there."
Tobey's eyes darkened as they flicked up to meet hers, burning with a mix of artistic frustration and raw hunger.
"I'm suffering because I'm trying to capture perfection without touching it," he growled low in his throat. "Now, stay still, Peony. Unless you want this painting to end up abstract because I tackled you."
Peony bit her lip to suppress a giggle, a thrill shooting through her. She settled back into her pose, satisfyingly aware of the effect she had on him, while Tobey let out a sharp exhale and forced his hand to remain steady on the canvas.
*****
Meanwhile, back at Peony's residence...
"Sigh."
Panchero couldn't help but let out a deep, heavy sigh as his back slumped against the soft cushions of the sofa. He held a cold bottle of beer in his left hand, the condensation dripping onto his knuckles, while his right hand massaged the top of his throbbing head. On the glass coffee table beside him, a forgotten cigarette burned slowly in the ashtray, a thin line of grey smoke curling into the air.
Across from him, Preston sat with his feet resting casually on the long section of the sofa, a laptop balanced on his lap. His posture was relaxed, but his intensity was terrifying. His fingers flew across the keyboard in a blur, his eyes glued to the screen as streams of data reflected in his glasses.
They were doing everything they could to locate Peony without alerting the authorities.
Reporting her missing to the police was out of the question. A police report would leak. The media would swarm like vultures, and the netizens—already vicious about the recent scandal—would spin malicious narratives that could destroy what was left of her career and mental health.
Instead, they handled it the Haven way.
They had silenced Vule with a threat that ensured the manager would take his secrets to the grave. Panchero had made it clear: if Vule opened his mouth to the media, they wouldn't just sue him. They had gathered information—dirt that would not only destroy his reputation but likely land him in prison for a very long time.
With the media blackout secured, they turned to the search.
Using Panchero's influence and Preston's access as a high-ranking officer in a government-funded special security agency, they had turned the house into a command center. They had traced her movements: she had traveled alone, hopping between different taxis to throw off any pursuit.
"She was smart," Preston muttered, eyes scanning a map on his screen. "She switched cabs three times."
But the farther she traveled from the city, the colder the trail became. The availability of CCTV cameras in the provinces was scarce. They had tracked her to the edge of the developed zones, but then... nothing. The digital trail went blind.
Panchero took a long swig of his beer. He didn't forget the possibility that she wasn't alone. Was someone waiting for her? Was she meeting a secret lover? Or worse, had someone intercepted her where the cameras couldn't see?
The family was mobilized.
Paxton, the second son and a ruthless lawyer at a top firm, was on standby in Pantheon City. He was five hours away from Acorn City, where the Haven family lived, but he had made it clear he would drive down the second they had a lead. He was ready to burn the world down for his sister. For now, however, Graciela had insisted he stay put; his wife was seven months pregnant, and she didn't want him leaving her side unless it was absolutely necessary.
"Dad, the dinner is ready."
The soft voice belonged to Aurora, Preston's wife. She stood in the doorway, looking sympathetic but trying to keep a sense of normalcy.
In the background, the sound of laughter drifted in from the dining room. Preston and Aurora's seven-year-old twin sons were playing near their grandmother. It was a calculated move; the children were there to divert Graciela's attention, to keep her from being fully consumed by the terror of her daughter being missing.
Panchero crushed the cigarette into the ashtray and stood up, though the weight on his shoulders remained.
"Let's eat," he grunted to Preston. "We can't find her on an empty stomach."
Preston didn't move. He continued his furious typing, the rhythmic clack-clack-clack of the keyboard filling the tense silence of the living room.
"Give me a minute," he muttered, eyes darting across lines of script. "I'm almost done."
Panchero paused at the doorway, shooting his son a sharp glance. "Just hurry up. The food will get cold."
"Yes."
Preston didn't look up.
Aurora silently approached her husband from behind. She leaned in to glance at the screen, but quickly looked away, blinking rapidly. The cascading walls of green code and scrolling data made her feel dizzy just looking at them. Instead, she placed her hands gently on his shoulders, massaging the tension knots in his muscles, and rested her forehead against the back of his head.
"Is this the program you said could find Onee?" she asked softly.
"Yes," Preston replied. He briefly took one hand off the keyboard to lovingly caress her cheek, grounding himself in her touch, before his fingers flew back to the keys. "This program bypasses the standard carrier protocols. It will automatically ping her location the moment she powers on her phone. Even if it's just for a few seconds to check the time or look at a photo... I'll get the exact coordinates."
Aurora sighed, her voice thick with worry. "I just hope she's okay. The boys already miss their Auntie Onee. And Mommy... I'm worried about Mother. She's holding it together, but she's breaking inside."
Preston let out a heavy breath, his jaw clenching tight. He didn't respond—he couldn't. If he stopped to think about his mother crying or his sister missing, he would lose his focus. He channeled all his fear and anger into the code.
Sensing he needed to concentrate, Aurora kissed the top of his head and quietly walked away, heading toward the dining room where the twins were busy piling food onto their grandmother's plate.
The room fell silent again, save for the frantic typing.
Then, Preston hit the final key with a definitive thwack.
"YES! I'M DONE!"