Page 36 of Freeing Camila

“Condor’s Overwatch is more than a security company. We do some security missions. Our primary function, however, involves investigating and executing missions that are beyond the capabilities or jurisdiction of the government.”

“So not just bodyguard jobs,” she interpreted.

“We do those too when needed.” He wanted to tell her that Baker had reached out to Condor’s Overwatch, requesting their help in watching out for her, but the words wouldn’t come. He didn’t know how she’d react. And frankly, it wasn’t just about the job for him anymore. She’d weaseled her way past the armor he’d shielded himself with and into his heart. Hence why he was oversharing, spilling his guts with the desperate hope of connection . . . understanding.

“I never talk about it, you know.” he said. “About my Ranger days. The loss of my teammate. Not because I’m ashamed. Just . . . it’s hard to explain that kind of weight to someone who hasn’t carried it.”

“I’m listening,” she said, voice just above a whisper. “And I understand more than you know.”

His stomach tightened, and he was already dreading what she might say. He knew her story, but hearing it from her . . . He’d seen glimpses of her past pain, the shadow of it lingering in her eyes.

“You ever feel like the worst parts of your story don’t belong to you anymore?” she asked softly.

Jeeves turned to her, his expression unreadable, but his attention fully hers.

“I was asleep. In my own bed. Men barged into my room. One moment I was sound asleep, the next, I was being dragged down the hall.” Her voice cracked, but she didn’t stop.

“I felt a prick in my neck, then there was nothing. When I woke up, I was in the back of a box truck, having no idea where I was or how I got there. When the truck stopped and the back opened and the hot and humid air hit me, I knew. I was no longer in LA. There were men. Guns. Chaos. With the Spanish the men spoke, I figured I was somewhere in Latin America.

“They took me out of that truck,” she continued. “Dragged me into the jungle like I weighed nothing. Beat me. Starved me. Kept me there for months. No light, no clocks, no names. Just orders. And silence. Except when they wanted to make sure I knew how small I was. And a man was always there. I’ll never forget him. His dark eyes. The stupid smirk that said he enjoyed watching my pain and fear. I hated him.”

A tear slid down her cheek, but she didn’t brush it away. His hand itched to reach out and swipe it away but resisted, squeezing the hand that was still linked with his instead. Jeeves sat very still. Tension rippled across his shoulders, but he didn’t speak. He let her have the space she needed.

“The worst was when they brought the girls in. Little girls, some no older than six or seven. One by one, they’d disappeared from our prison. I knew they weren’t being adopted by loving families. It broke my heart. And there was a good amount of fear realizing that was probably going to be my fate, too. I told myself stories at night just to remember what hope sounded like.” Rage hit him like a gut-punch. His jaw locked, vision narrowing. But then she looked at him—really looked—and he forced himself to breathe.

“It was a team of SEALs that found me. I don’t think they expected me to be there, but they took me and the remaining girls with them.”

She took a deep breath before continuing. “The thing is, I didn’t feel rescued. I felt . . . broken. Like they’d taken something I couldn’t name, and I’d never get it back.” She let out a shaky breath. “I still wake up sometimes expecting to hear boots outside the door.”

Her voice caught, and for the first time, she turned to him, her eyes glistening in the firelight. Jeeves’s chest constricted, and he couldn’t stand the look in her eyes. He turned toward her, his hands hovering hesitantly in the space between them. She didn’t pull away. Instead, she met his gaze, her face pale but composed, as though the act of sharing her story had taken something out of her. A deep breath trembled through her lips, and for a moment, Jeeves thought she might say more, but she didn’t. She didn’t need to.

He could see it in her eyes now—the remnants of that woman who had been through hell and survived it. He wanted to protect her. To do everything in his power to make sure she never felt that kind of fear again.

Gently, he brought his hands up to her face, cradling it in his palms. He gave in and swiped the tears away with his thumbs. “They didn’t take everything,” he said quietly.

She turned to him, eyes glossy in the moonlight.

“I see the way you carry it,” he said. “But I also see the way you keep going. That’s not weakness. That’s survival. That’s strength.”

She embodied pure strength. Stronger than him. His pain, while great, was nothing compared to what she carried with her. He needed to take a page from her book. Needed to let himself finally grieve. To move past the pain. Tear down the walls he’d built to keep people out. He could start by telling her his story. All of it. The good stuff and the shameful acts of his past that weighed heavily on his mind. But not tonight. Tonight was about her.

“It was those SEALs and their wives and girlfriends who helped the most. I couldn’t go home, so they took me in. Helped me recover physically and mentally. I owe them my life.”

“I would like to buy them a beer.” He’d never met that SEAL team, but if he ever got the opportunity, he’d shake their hands.

She laughed once, dryly. “I haven’t told many people. Most wouldn’t know what to do with it.”

“I’m not most people,” he said quietly. “And you’re not alone anymore.”

For a moment, she just stared at him. Then she looked down at his lips, and he felt her tremble—not in fear, but something else. Something deeper.

Jeeves sat there, still reeling from her words, and the sudden rush of blood to his cock made him curse to himself inwardly. This was not the time.

She’d just told him the story—her story. The one that had haunted her, shaped her. The one that made his chest ache with a kind of helpless rage and reverence all at once. He hadn’t known what to say when she’d finished. There weren’t words for that kind of pain. And yet, she’d trusted him with it. Laid it bare like a wound finally unbandaged.

The fire crackled beside them, casting flickering shadows across her face. Her eyes were rimmed with exhaustion and something he recognized now—relief. But her shoulders were still tight, her fingers still nervously twisting the hem of her sweatshirt.

She looked . . . breakable. But not weak. Never weak. Stronger than anyone he’d ever met. And more beautiful than he could ever remember seeing her.

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