Page 216 of Corrupting Camille
Kane studies me. “She’s the one person who knows everything?”
I nod. “Or most of it. Enough to call me on my bullshit.”
Another pause.
Then, quietly: “You miss her.”
“Yes.”
He leans back slowly in his chair, his fingers leaving my skin like the heat of them is still there. He says nothing.
I go to sip my coffee again, and stop when I see what he’s holding.
A phone.
New. Sleek. Unopened.
I stare at it.
“What’s this?”
“So you can call her. And your sister,” he adds. “I know you haven’t talked to her either.”
I blink, heart knocking too fast. “Kane…”
“You don’t owe me silence,” he says, cutting me off gently. “I’m not Preston. I don’t want your world small just so I can fit better in it.”
The words hit harder than I expect.
He steps closer, brushes my hair off my shoulder. “You don’t have to erase them to make room for me.”
My throat closes.
I look down at the phone, then back up at him.
“You think you know everything,” I whisper.
He leans in, lips brushing my cheek, my ear, the corner of my mouth. “I study what I love.”
And just like that, I break.
Quietly. Softly. Without warning.
I slide off the counter and wrap my arms around him, burying my face in his chest. He holds me without asking what’s wrong. Without needing an explanation. Just lets me tremble against him in a kitchen full of light, espresso, and the first peace I’ve felt in days.
“I love you,” I whisper into his shirt, barely audible.
His grip tightens.
Then his mouth lowers to my temple.
“Te amo, Munequita.”
***
I sink deeper into the thick, plush comforter, clutching the sleek, overpriced phone Kane shoved into my hand earlier. My pulse trips and stutters, fingertips trembling, palms clammy, God, why am I acting like I'm about to drunk-dial an ex?
It’s just Lena.
