Page 122 of Corrupting Camille
Maybe he can.
“Fuck you, Kane,” I whisper, desperate to reclaim some shred of control.
But it lands weak, useless.
He chuckles softly, darkly satisfied, like he knows exactly how deeply he’s fractured me. The sound vibrates through my chest, unravels me even more. I hate myself for calling, hate that his silence guts me more deeply than his words ever could.
“I’m hanging up,” I force out, voice thinner than I want.
“Go ahead,” he dares me softly.
He knows I won’t. And for one excruciating moment, I don’t. I just hold the phone, waiting…aching…to hear what he’ll say next. Because I want to know where he is. If he’s alone. If he’s coming back.
But I won’t ask. I won’t give him that power.
Then, a subtle shift. The silence breaks, the air suddenly charged.
“Where are you?” he asks.
My breath catches painfully. “What?”
“Where. Are. You.” Each word lands like footsteps coming closer, slow and deliberate, like he already knows the answer but wants me to surrender it anyway.
“Why?” I whisper.
“So I don’t have to come find you.”
A threat. A warning. A promise.
My heartbeat crashes against my ribs. “You wouldn’t.”
Another soft, cruel laugh, edged with danger. “Try me.”
Panic skitters under my skin, my pulse thrumming wildly. I should end this call. Lock every door. Shut him out for good.
But my mouth betrays me, words slipping free before my brain can scream to stop.
“I’m home.”
A heartbeat of silence stretches painfully, long enough for regret to hit, hard and cold.
“Kane, wait…” I start, voice trembling, frantic. “Don’t…”
But he’s already hung up.
Shit.
Shit.
I hit redial immediately, scrambling off the bed, my breathing shallow, harsh.
“Please answer,” I whisper desperately, pressing the phone harder against my ear. “Pick up, Kane…”
Straight to voicemail.
Damn it.
My phone rings suddenly, vibrating in my palm. My heart leaps into my throat. I answer instantly, recklessly.
