Page 181 of Corrupting Camille
The two men clasp forearms, tight, hard, and pull each other in for a brutal, one-second hug. It’s not affection. It’s code. History. Survival.
They slip into Spanish.
Low and fast, words trading between them like bullets.
“Reyes está detrás de esto.”Reyes is behind this.
“Lo sabía.”I knew it.
“Él cruzó la línea.”He crossed the line.
And then Kane shifts again, this time back to me. Hand on the small of my back, grounding, protective, but no longer tender.
His face is unreadable as he speaks. “Diego, this is Camille Sinclair.”
My name feels like a weapon on his tongue.
Diego turns his gaze to me, slow and assessing. His stare is the kind that peels back layers. Not cruel. Just thorough. Like he’s trying to see what Kane sees, and whether it’s worth protecting.
After a long beat, he nods. “Bienvenida,” he says, voice low. “You’re in good hands.”
“I know,” I manage, throat dry.
Diego turns to the others. “Come.”
They disappear through a set of heavy doors, flanked by glass and stone, deep into the house.
And then we’re alone again.
Except we’re not.
Not really.
Kane turns to me so fast I barely register the movement before his hands are on my face.
One on each cheek. Firm. Desperate.
And then his mouth crashes down on mine.
It’s not soft.
It’s devastating.
His kiss is all tongue and teeth and hunger. His fingers thread into my hair, tugging me closer as his lips consume mine. I gasp against him, but he doesn’t relent. He kisses me like he’s about to die. Like I’m oxygen and he doesn’t know when he’ll get to breathe again.
And I feel it.
The desperation.
The apology.
The promise hidden inside his mouth.
When he finally pulls back, we’re both shaking. My lips are swollen, my breath ragged, my knees barely holding me up.
But he doesn’t let go.
He presses his forehead to mine, hands still cupping my jaw like I’m breakable, like I’m real, like I matter.
