Page 38 of Corrupting Camille
The second the door closes behind him, tension coils tighter inside me. My fists clench, frustration crawling beneath my skin, Camille’s fault. Camille’s lingering infection.
I rise abruptly, pacing in front of the massive windows, eyes scanning the city. fifty-nine floors below, life hums obliviously on, unbothered by the chaos gnawing me.
My phone vibrates in my pocket, Joaquin. I answer without looking. “Speak.”
“We found Torres’s man,” Joaquin reports evenly. “He’s waiting downstairs, sublevel.”
“On my way.”
Minutes later, I’m plunging downward in the elevator, the sleek glass and marble replaced by concrete walls, flickering fluorescents, and stale, metallic air. No veneer here. Only truth, raw, bloody, unflinching.
Two of my men have the traitor on his knees, wrists bound, face swollen. Joaquin stands by, tattooed forearms folded across his chest, waiting silently. I circle slowly, eyes narrowed, evaluating him.
“Please,” the man begs, voice broken. “I’ll pay it back, I swear…”
“Enough.” I crouch down, tilting my head. “You knew the rules.”
“Mr. Rivera, please…”
I nod to Joaquin, bored now. The screaming starts as they drag him toward the industrial grinder. Metal blades churn to life, shrieking over his screams. Bone snaps. Blood sprays in sharp arcs against cold concrete, pooling red and wet across the floor.
I watch, detached.
But even here, in violence and bloodshed, Camille’s ghost lingers. Her moans fill the silence between the screams, the image of her trembling body carved into my skull.
Maldición, bruja. Witch.
A witch I want to fuck again. And again. Until I’ve exorcised this need or it kills me.
By evening, I’m pacing the penthouse like a caged animal, restless and wired. Her scent, vanilla, neroli, still clings to the air, the sheets, my fucking skin. I sit on the couch, my hand already reaching for my phone, opening Instagram on autopilot.
Her profile mocks me. Camille laughing at brunch, smiling at fundraisers, posing flawlessly at parties. And then, Tulum.
Black bikini, barely-there fabric hugging golden skin, wet curls spilling carelessly across her bare shoulders, her lips parted, a quiet tease.
My cock hardens instantly, painfully.
Bruja, I curse again, voice rough and angry, hand sliding down to unzip my pants. My strokes are slow, punishing, edging myself while my eyes drink in every detail. Her parted thighs. The shadow between her hips. Her mouth, soft and inviting.
I push myself to the brink of pain, refusing release, hating how deeply she’s already fucked herself into my head. When I finally let myself come, it’s harsh and brutal, her name a guttural curse spilling from clenched teeth.
It doesn’t help.
Day Two.
It gets worse.
Joaquin briefs me on Dubai accounts, cartel shifts in Colombia, another dead informant, another quiet disposal. I nod, detached, while every woman passing by resembles her, every flash of dark curls, every whispered laugh, every slick mouth painted in shades of temptation.
At night, I stand naked in front of the bathroom mirror again, hand trembling against the marble counter, knuckles splitting as I slam a fist into the stone, staring at her lipstick brand.
Rosewood.
A fucking curse.
Day Three.
I stop pretending.
