Page 211 of Corrupting Camille

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And for once, I don’t apologize for the tears.

Kane

I watch her from the edge of the courtyard.

No one notices me, people rarely do when I don’t want them to. It’s a trick I learned a long time ago, in places whereshowing your face meant risking your life. Where stillness meant survival.

But this isn’t survival.

This is... something else.

Camille stands by the stone wall, silhouetted in moonlight, her curls wild and soft around her face, her back straight, her hands wrapped around a glass like she’s trying to keep herself anchored.

Rosa is next to her, calm, steady, knowing.

She always knows.

She places her hand on Camille’s cheek, gentle and maternal, and I watch Camille blink hard. I know that look. The way her lashes lower when she’s trying to blink away something that’s not ready to be said.

I know the weight of everything she’s carrying.

What I don’t know is how she’s still standing.

After everything.

After me.

Because I’ve touched her in ways I can’t undo. Claimed her in rooms that should’ve stayed locked. Taken her to the edge more times than I should’ve allowed. And still, still she shows up. Barefoot. Laughing. Burning too bright to belong to someone like me.

And yet... here she is.

Letting Rosa hold her face like a daughter.

Letting this family wrap around her.

Letting herself be seen.

It hits me harder than I expect.

Because I don’t believe in softness. I was raised in blood, fire, and silence. My father taught me how to listen through walls. Colombia taught me how to disappear. The cartel taught me what kind of man I’d have to become to survive without a name.

And I did.

But none of that prepared me for this.

For her.

For the image of Camille Sinclair standing in the home I bled to protect, laughing with my people, glowing from my touch, and belonging like she was carved to fit here.

A sharp breath rattles my ribs.

I feel something unsteady.

Not rage. Not lust.

Need.

To keep her.

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