Page 221 of Corrupting Camille
I hear Marisol’s voice faintly through the phone, sharp and insistent. Whatever she’s suggesting, she’s clearly pushing hard. Kane’s jaw tightens visibly.
“I don’t give a fuck if Reina thinks it’s a good idea, Marisol,” he says coldly. “She can think whatever the hell she wants. I’m not taking Camille out in public right now.”
My stomach knots. He hasn’t even asked me.
He hasn’t considered my opinion at all.
“I’m done talking about this.” He ends the call abruptly and tosses the phone onto the counter. His eyes flick to mine. “They want to go to some ridiculous carnival tonight. The answer’s no.”
My pulse spikes. “Did you even consider asking me?”
“I don’t need to,” he says simply, moving closer like he expects to placate me with a kiss.
But I’m not placated. I’m pissed.
When he reaches for me, I step back sharply, slapping his hand away. “Don’t touch me.”
His eyes narrow dangerously, anger simmering. “Careful, Camille.”
“Or what?” I shoot back, voice shaking. “You’ll keep me locked in here forever? I’m not your pet, Kane. I’m not your plaything.”
His mouth twists coldly. “Aren’t you?”
I freeze. The words land exactly as he intended: hard, precise, cutting deep.
My throat tightens. “Fuck you.”
His expression doesn’t soften, it hardens even more, cold and unfeeling. “You knew exactly what this was. What I am. Don’t pretend to be surprised.”
His voice is ice-cold, merciless. I barely recognize him.
“You’re being cruel,” I whisper, tears burning hot behind my eyes.
“Yes,” he says, unflinching, brutal. “And you’re still mine.”
I choke back a sob and turn away, heart pounding painfully against my ribs as I walk quickly out of the kitchen, refusing to let him see the tears slip down my face.
I don’t look back.
I won’t let him see me break.
Not this time.
I’m curled up alone in a smaller lounge room an hour later, staring blindly out the window, still numb, still aching, when I sense him behind me.
He stands silent, tension radiating off him. He doesn’t speak at first. I won’t give him the satisfaction of acknowledging him either. I just breathe slowly, forcing myself to remain composed, refusing to break the silence.
“I never claimed to be a good man,” he finally says, voice low and gruff, edged with regret he’ll never openly admit. “I warned you from the start.”
I don’t respond. My heart aches, raw and bruised.
Kane steps closer. I don’t turn around, but I feel his presence so close now, warm, dangerous, conflicted.
“You wanted this,” he murmurs, softer now. “Me. All of me. Even the parts that hurt.”
My eyes burn. “Not like this,” I whisper hoarsely.
He exhales roughly, frustration and something else, maybe guilt, bleeding into the silence. Another long pause stretches.
