Page 243 of Corrupting Camille
Joaquin’s voice turns cold. “It’s Luis.”
Luis Torres. One of ours. One of Kane’s personal security…someone trusted, vetted, close enough to breathe the same air as Camille.
“How long?” Joaquin murmurs. “How fucking long has he been talking?”
I clench my jaw. “Doesn’t matter. He doesn’t get to talk again.”
Joaquin nods, eyes hardening. “Kane needs to know.”
“I’ll handle it,” I say sharply, taking my phone from my pocket. “Luis is fucking dead already. He just doesn’t know it yet.”
Joaquin doesn’t move, eyes still fixed on the screen. “This runs deeper. If Rojas flipped Luis, there could be more.”
I know exactly what he means. “Then we root them out. Quietly. Kane’s distracted…”
“Protecting her,” Joaquin interrupts softly.
We exchange a glance heavy with meaning.
“And we protect him,” I finish coldly. “No matter what.”
I step away, phone pressed to my ear, dialing Kane. It rings once. Twice. Three times before he picks up.
“Speak,” Kane answers, voice low, calm, distant. He’s with her…I hear the ocean, the quiet.
“We have a problem,” I say quietly. “Rojas flipped one of ours.”
Silence.
Then Kane’s voice, deadly calm: “Who?”
“Luis Torres.”
The pause is sharp. Kane doesn’t breathe.
“Bring him in,” he says finally, words dripping with cold, ruthless certainty. “No one touches him but me.”
He hangs up before I can respond, the line going abruptly silent.
I turn back to Joaquin, my voice ice-cold. “You heard him.”
Joaquin nods once, grim and knowing. “Consider it done.”
Camille
Kane’s jaw flexes tight as he ends the call, the barely-there movement a faint tremor beneath his carefully maintained composure. But it’s enough I feel it immediately, that shift that warns me something just fractured beneath his calm.
“What happened?” My voice comes softly, cautious as though a sudden movement might shatter whatever fragile truth he’s holding.
He hesitates for half a breath, eyes distant, storm clouds brewing behind the practiced blankness. Then he reaches for my hand, lifting it gently to his lips. The soft brush of his mouth over my knuckles sends warmth sliding through my veins, even as unease curls sharply in my stomach.
“Nothing you need to worry about,” he murmurs, tone too gentle, too deliberate.
I study him closely, tracing the tight line of his mouth, the hard edge of his jaw. He’s lying, protecting me but I don’t need gentle lies. I need him.
“Kane.”
His exhale comes rough, almost pained, thumb stroking restlessly across my palm. His eyes fix on our joined hands as if anchoring himself, steadying the violence swirling inside him.
