Page 38 of Freeing Camila

He shifted in front of her, just slightly, and she could feel him watching her. Waiting.

She didn’t look at him—not yet. Her voice came out softer than she intended. “That was . . . unexpected.”

A beat passed. Then another.

And then he said, just as quietly, “Was it okay?”

She nodded, her throat tight. Then forced herself to speak. “It was more than okay.” She hesitated. “It was . . . the first.”

Silence stretched between them again, but it was different now—full of weight and wonder.

His hands dropped from her face but reached for hers, careful and slow, his fingers brushing the back of her knuckles like he was afraid she might disappear. “Then I’m honored,” he said, voice rough. “More than you’ll ever know.”

Tears burned her eyes, and she didn’t even know why. Maybe it was because he hadn’t laughed. Hadn’t looked at her with pity. Maybe it was because, for the first time, she didn’t feel broken. Just . . . brave. Just beginning.

She finally looked up at him, her heart in her throat. “I don’t know how to do this,” she whispered.

He smiled then, the kind that made her stomach flip. “That’s okay,” he said. “We’ll figure it out together.”

Cammie liked that. She’d never had a ‘together’ with anyone before. She’d always been alone. In everything. Her days. Her nights. Her studies. The responsibilities her father expected of her involved cleaning, cooking, and maintaining the house, which was a lot of work for one person . . . alone.

But the times she was alone were preferable to the times when her father took notice of her. Or, God forbid, one of her father’s men. As she matured, she came to realize that if she allowed herself to be alone with one of the men, they wouldn’t hesitate. Cammie figured her father wouldn't have cared one bit. That became blatantly obvious the night she’d been pulled from her bed and sold to sex traffickers. She’d always managed to steer clear of the men, except for that night.

The times when her father noticed her came with pain and heartache. He never used his fists. His form of abuse was the open palm and words. Both left a sting that stayed long after he’d struck. She tried to steer clear of him as well and look where that got her.

But now, she was alone with Wade, a man she longed for, a thrill of excitement coursing through her. And he was talking about figuring things out together, a hopeful smile playing on his lips.

And somehow, she believed him.

Not knowing what else to say, she finally replied with a simple, “Okay.”

He smiled, a genuine smile that reached his eyes, crinkling the corners and adding to his already warm expression. It struck her then. She’d only seen that warm expression when he looked at her. The realization caused her insides to turn into a pile of mush.

He rose to his full height, towering over her, causing her to crane her neck and strain to look up into his eyes. He reached a hand out to her, the smile still on his lips. “I remember hearing something about sleeping under the stars on that bucket list of yours.”

She took his hand, curiosity driving her. “What do you mean?”

He pulled her up, but didn’t drop her hand once she was upright. Instead, he pulled her over to the back of his truck. He lowered the tailgate to reveal the back was full of bedding.

“You up for it?” he asked, practically challenging her.

Feeling almost giddy, she accepted enthusiastically. “You betcha.”

He helped her up, and they both got comfortable. She hadn’t known peace could feel like this.

The bed of his truck was lined with thick quilts and an old sleeping bag that smelled faintly of pine and him. The tailgate was down, offering an unbroken view of the hills stretching into the distance, silhouetted under a canopy of stars. The crickets had taken up their evening chorus, soft and rhythmic, like nature’s lullaby. And beside her—so close their shoulders brushed—was him.

She hadn’t expected to stay the night. But when he’d suggested it, half a smile tugging at his lips, a twinkle in his eyes, she hadn’t been able to say no. It wasn’t just the stars or the quiet—it was him. The way he looked at her like she wasn’t made of jagged edges. Like she belonged here, in his world.

She settled deeper into the quilt, pulling it around her shoulders. He was already lying back, one arm folded behind his head, the other resting between them, not touching, but close enough to feel the warmth. His eyes were on the sky, but she could see the softness in his profile, the way his expression relaxed in the dark.

“You do this a lot?” she asked, her voice hushed, like anything louder might disturb the magic of the night.

He turned his head, smiled. “Used to. Back when I thought stars had answers.”

She smiled too, small and quiet. “Do they?”

His gaze found hers, and the stars reflected in his eyes. “Not really. But they make the questions feel smaller.”

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