Page 235 of Corrupting Camille
I close the book and set it aside. “It’s not fear. Not exactly.”
“What is it?”
I pause. “It’s knowing I’m not built for this. That every time I think I’m learning your world, it pulls me under again.”
He watches me in silence for a long beat.
Then: “Come with me.”
We move through the belly of the house, past steel doors and a biometric scanner, into the part of Kane’s world I’ve never touched.
The air gets cooler. Thicker.
The walls turn darker. Concrete. Exposed steel.
The moment the door hisses open, I know where we are.
The sound hits me before the scent does.
Gunpowder. Oil. Leather.
An indoor range. Sleek. Clean. Efficient. The kind of place designed to erase hesitation.
My stomach flips.
“Kane…”
He doesn’t look at me right away. He’s focused, meticulous as he pulls a weapon from a matte black case mounted on the wall.
“It’s not about you becoming me,” he says, voice even. “It’s about knowing how to survive me.”
I go still.
He turns, places the gun carefully on the counter between us.
“I can protect you every second I’m awake, Camille. But if something happens… if you’re ever alone you need to know how to stop someone from taking what’s yours.”
He’s not angry. He’s not even cold.
He’s scared.
And in Kane Rivera, fear comes dressed in preparation.
I swallow hard. “Okay.”
That one word costs more than I want to admit.
He nods once. No triumph. No gloating. Just quiet approval.
He slides soundproof headphones over my ears. The world dulls immediately, muted, distant.
He fires once.Twice.Three times.
Even though I’m braced for it, the sound cracks through my ribs like a punch. I flinch. My heart jackhammers. The concrete beneath my feet feels too hard, too far away. Like my body might drift off if I stop trying to hold it here.
He removes the headphones slowly. Steps behind me. Guides my hands to the gun.
“It’s loaded but safe,” he says. “You squeeze. You breathe. You listen to me.”
