Page 257 of Corrupting Camille
“Stay down,” I whisper to Camille. My voice is wreckage. Shaking.
She doesn’t listen. She crawls to the corner, dragging her battered body behind her, but she keeps her eyes on me.
She wants to see this.
Rojas coughs, tries to rise.
I kick him back down.
He’s bleeding now. From the mouth. The nose. One eye swelling already. Still trying to smile through cracked teeth.
“You blew a hole in your own compound for a woman,” he spits.
I step over him.
Look him in the eyes.
And aim.
“Yes,” I say coldly.
And then I shoot him in the other knee.
He screams.
I crouch.
“You’re not dying yet,” I murmur. “You’re going to feel it. Every second Camille spent terrified. Every bruise. Every scream. Every breath.”
I look back at her once, just to be sure.
She’s still watching.
Still fighting.
Still mine.
And now, I show her what that means.
Rojas groans beneath my boot, blood already pooling beneath him from the bullet wound in his knee.
It’s not enough.
Not even close.
“You should’ve killed me,” he spits, face twisted in pain.
“Oh, I will,” I whisper. “But not before you understand what it means to touch what’s mine.”
I crouch slowly, pulling the combat knife from my vest.
It’s not the gun that makes a man beg.
It’s the blade.
I slice through his belt first. Then his shirt. Tear the fabric away until he’s bare-chested, heaving, trembling beneath me.
I want him exposed. Stripped.
