Page 215 of Corrupting Camille
Neither of us ever wins.
Not really.
He watches me too closely.
And I like being seen like that.
It’s morning now, and the kitchen smells like espresso and eggs, something spiced and simmering low on the stove. Kane’s already poured my coffee the way I like it. I didn’t ask.
I don’t have to anymore.
I’m wearing one of his shirts again, sleeves rolled to my elbows, legs bare beneath the hem. His hand rests lazily on my thigh beneath the table as I drag a bishop across the board, considering my next move.
He watches.
Always.
“Are you going to make the move or just seduce me with your indecision?” he says dryly.
I snort. “Both.”
His mouth curves. Barely. But it’s enough.
I lift my eyes to him just as I drop the bishop in place. “Check.”
He hums. Unbothered. “You always play like you want to lose.”
“I don’t.”
“You just want it to look like you’re not trying.”
I look at him for a beat longer than I should. “That’s not just how I play chess.”
His eyes sharpen.
But I change the subject before he can push.
“I haven’t spoken to Lena,” I murmur suddenly. “Since… everything.”
Kane doesn’t react. Doesn’t speak. But his hand pauses briefly on my thigh.
“She’s my best friend,” I say quietly. “We met when we were sixteen. At one of those ridiculous galas with white orchids and endless donor walls. I was in some stupid structured satin dress and heels that didn’t fit. She had purple hair, combat boots, and stole a bottle of champagne from the waitstaff.”
He lifts a brow. “Your type.”
“She’s chaos,” I say, smiling softly into the memory. “But the best kind.”
I glance down at the chessboard, then back at him. “Her dad’s a drummer in some old metal band. Her mom’s famous for... well, a video. Lena’s never cared about image. She saw through mine from the first moment. Called me out constantly. Challenged everything I thought I knew about the world.”
Kane says nothing, but his hand resumes its movement, fingertips tracing idle circles along the inside of my thigh. Not sexual. Just... there.
Anchoring.
“She was my safe place,” I whisper. “After I left your penthouse. After we fought about the ring. I went straight to her apartment. I wore her clothes. I cried into her pillow.”
He lifts his eyes then, sharp and direct.
“She must be worried,” I say. “It’s been weeks. And I haven’t reached out. I didn’t even take my phone.”
