Page 234 of Corrupting Camille
“Find me everything,” I murmur quietly, calmly…too calmly. “I want his history, his blood type, the name of every woman he’s ever fucked, every enemy he’s ever made. I want the addresses, the schedules, the fucking coffee shops he visits. If Rojas breathes, I want to know about it.”
Márquez gives a tight nod, rising quickly. He understands exactly how close he stands to the fire. “Consider it done.”
The door shuts behind him, but the silence stays thick, charged.
Javi clears his throat carefully, voice low. “You know this is a trap. He’s baiting you.”
I smile faintly, my gaze still locked on that damn photo, Camille’s carefree laughter a stark contrast to the violent possessiveness coiling deep inside me. “I know.”
Joaquin’s stare is sharp, assessing. “Then what’s the play?”
My thumb traces the edge of Camille’s image, imagining her pulse racing beneath my fingertips. The thought of anyone else imagining they have the right to touch her, to watch her, to breathe her in, makes me fucking murderous.
“We give him exactly what he wants,” I say softly, dangerously. “He thinks he can use her to draw me out? Good. He’ll get his wish. But he’s going to choke on it.”
Javi’s eyes narrow. “Risky.”
My smile turns darker, colder, utterly ruthless. “He started this game, but I’ll end it. By the time I’m done with Rojas, no one else will dare look twice at what’s mine.”
Joaquin nods slowly, approval and something darker flickering briefly behind his carefully masked gaze. “Then we let him come closer.”
“Exactly.” My voice drops lower, raw with quiet, unrestrained threat. “Because when he does, I’ll chop his head off.”
Camille
It starts out slow, the kind of lazy afternoon you only steal when you're desperate, stillness you don't deserve, softness borrowed from somewhere safer, brighter, kinder.
Kane’s head rests against my thigh, his eyes closed, lips parted slightly like he’s between thoughts. His hand rests on my bare calf, thumb brushing mindlessly over my skin. He’s not asleep, just… still. Unwound. A rarity. His whole body seems heavier like gravity’s pressing him into me on purpose.
I thread my fingers through his damp hair, freshly washed and curling slightly at the ends. His scent lingers, leather and bergamot, heat and something uniquely him. I don’t know how a man like this smells like violence and comfort at the same time.
The book in my other hand is open, pages soft beneath my thumb, but I haven’t turned a page in fifteen minutes.
Not with the weight of what I’ve been holding.
“Kane?”
“Mmm?”
His eyes don’t open, but the hand on my leg stills.
I hesitate.
“Are they still watching me?”
His lashes lift then. Just slightly. Enough to look at me without sitting up. His eyes are unreadable, dark, slow, assessing.
I try to keep my voice light. Teasing. “I mean, if I’m going to have a fans, I’d like to know about them."
He doesn’t smile.
Because I wasn’t really joking.
And he knows it.
Kane reads me like a language he invented. He hears what I don’t say.
“You’re scared,” he murmurs, sitting up slowly. “And you’re trying to hide it in sarcasm.”
