Page 180 of Corrupting Camille
This isn’t just a home. It’s a fortress.
And suddenly I understand everything, this war, these men, this place, it’s Kane’s legacy, his empire, and I’ve just stepped into the eye of his storm.
He helps me out of the car, palm at the small of my back, his voice low and steady against my ear as he leads me toward the imposing front doors.
“Remember what I said, Camille.” His words are quiet but ironclad. “Stay close. Always.”
***
The moment we cross the threshold into Kane’s home, the air shifts.
It’s immediate. Palpable. Like walking into the calm before a gunfight.
The foyer is marble and shadow, opulent but cold. Five men stand waiting, like statues carved from violence. Javi and Joaquin among them, though Joaquin, I notice now, isn’t just Kane’s right hand.
He’s blood.
The way he stands beside the others, at ease but ready, tells me everything I need to know. This isn’t a meeting. It’s a war council.
And Kane?
He changes.
Right in front of me.
It’s not dramatic. There’s no sound. No warning.
One second, he’s the man who just held me together midair with his mouth and his body and the weight of a love neither of us were supposed to feel.
The next, he’s something else entirely.
His shoulders square. His eyes sharpen into cold obsidian. The warmth drains from his expression like someone flipped a switch. He doesn’t let go of my hand, not yet, but I can already feel the distance creeping in, like he’s retreating somewhere I can’t follow.
Not now.
Not here.
“Kane,” Joaquin says, nodding once. “They’re in the main room.”
Kane gives a barely perceptible dip of his chin. “Good.”
He doesn’t acknowledge the others. Doesn’t need to. His presence alone commands the space.
He walks forward without a word, and I move with him.
My bare feet whisper across the polished floor, the hem of his shirt brushing the tops of my thighs as I try to keep up with his longer stride. I feel underdressed and out of place. Half-naked, no makeup, no armor, just Kane’s scent on my skin and his desire between my thighs.
And somehow, that’s the only thing keeping me grounded.
We reach a wide archway that opens into a cavernous glass-walled room. Ocean light spills across stone floors, casting everything in a warm, unforgiving glow.
A man stands at the far end, back turned, staring out at the horizon like it personally owes him something. His posture is power. Controlled. Coiled. Even before he turns, I know, this is Diego.
“Kane,” he says as he turns, his voice thick with gravel and quiet steel. “Hermano.”
Brother.
He’s older than I expected. Mid-fifties maybe. Scar across his jaw. Dark, storm-gray eyes that assess everything and give nothing back. There’s a heaviness to him that reminds me of Kane, not in body, but in spirit. Like he’s buried men and smiled after.
