Page 59 of Freeing Camila

And it made her ache in places she didn’t know still had feeling.

As he played with her hair, she traced lazy circles against his pecs with the tip of her finger, unsure if she was stalling or searching for courage. Maybe both.

“My mom left when I was eight,” she whispered, her voice barely audible against the hush of the room. “One morning she walked me up to this gigantic mansion, handed me a note and told me to wait there and give it to whoever answered the door. She rang the bell, then turned and was just gone. No goodbye. Nothing.”

She felt his fingers still in her hair, but he didn’t say anything. He didn’t try to fill the silence or fix it. He just let her speak.

“I used to imagine she would come back for me,” she said quietly, her voice almost lost in the hush between them. “That she had a reason for leaving. That it wasn’t because I wasn’t enough.”

He still didn’t speak. He listened. Letting her have the space, the silence to say what had been buried too long.

“I waited for years. Birthdays. Christmases. Every car that slowed outside the house made me hope.” She swallowed, eyes fixed on the shadowed ceiling. “But she never came back.”

“My father . . . he didn’t know what to do with me. And he didn’t try to learn. He didn’t raise me. Heruledme. I was more like furniture in his house—something expected to be useful, silent, invisible unless needed.”

His arm tightened around her ever so slightly, as if he could will himself into her past and rewrite it.

“I wasn’t a daughter to him—I was a thing. Something to clean up after him. Cook. Stay out of sight. Speak when spoken to.” She paused, then added, “When I cried, he told me I was weak. When I smiled, he reminded me I hadn’t earned it.”

Her throat tightened, but she pushed through. “He never hugged me. Never told me he loved me. Just gave orders and punishments. I wasn’t a daughter—I was a burden. A servant.”

She felt him tense slightly, like he wanted to hurt the man who had hurt her, but his arms only pulled her closer.

“I used to think something was wrong with me,” she continued softly. “That I wasn’t lovable. That love was always supposed to come with conditions or pain.”

She lifted her head then, propped herself up on one elbow to look at him, her eyes glistening but open, unflinching.

“And then you,” she said. “You looked at me like I was worth knowing. You were patient. You never asked for more than I could give, never made me feel small. And somewhere along the way . . . you taught me what love is.”

The dim light caught the lines of his face, softened the intensity in his eyes. He looked at her like she mattered—like her scars didn’t make her unlovable, but more real. Her voice cracked at the edges, but she didn’t hide it.

“You let me be myself. You listened when I didn’t know how to speak. You waited when I didn’t know how to trust. And you showed me love . . . not with words, but with every quiet thing you do.”

He started to speak, but she pressed her fingers to his lips, a tremulous smile breaking through.

“I love you,” she whispered. “I love you because you saw me when no one else ever did. Because you gave me something I didn’t think existed. Because with you . . . I feel like I can breathe.”

He kissed her fingers, slowly and tenderly, and pulled her into his chest.

And for the first time in her life, she felt like she belonged—like maybe, just maybe, love wasn’t something to survive.

It was something to live in. Something free. Something wonderful.

“I love you too, sprite,” he whispered against her hair. She closed her eyes and absorbed those words. They were heartfelt. Honest. True. “I’m in awe that you are giving that to me. That you are able to love so freely. I grew up surrounded by love. My parents, grandparents, extended family?there was always love and laughter. My mom still gives me that in each phone call to check up on me. I closed myself off from it for a long time. I didn’t let that love in. I didn’t feel worthy.”

He paused and looked deeply into her eyes, like he could see a simple truth in her soul. “I learned from you that love isn’t about self-worth, but about acceptance. It’s not a performance or a feeling to be manufactured, it’s simply being present in the moment. And I want to be present in every moment with you.”

He leaned in and kissed her forehead, then her temple, then the corner of her mouth. A solemn kind of kiss. One that said everything without words.

And in that moment, held tightly in the arms of the only man who had ever trulyseenher, she finally understood what it meant to be home.

CHAPTER24

Morning light filteredthrough the curtains, soft and golden, stretching across the rumpled sheets. Cammie was still asleep beside him, her breathing slow, steady, peaceful. One hand curled near her face, the other tucked beneath his arm like she belonged there—like she knew it.

Jeeves lay still, not wanting to wake her, not wanting to move and break the fragile perfection of this moment. His eyes traced the slope of her shoulder, the curve of her jaw, the way her hair spilled like ink across his pillow. It felt surreal—like something he’d imagined on the darkest nights but never believed he’d actually have.

His gaze drifted to the ceiling, its faded paint barely registering as his thoughts were far from the room. They were with her—still tangled in the way her voice had sounded the night before, raw and soft and brave when she’d whispered, “I love you.”

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