Page 230 of Corrupting Camille
He comes up behind me, rests his hand lightly on the small of my back, and I nearly jump.
But his voice is calm. Steady.
“Ready to go, muñequita?”
I glance up. He looks the same.
Too calm.
Too composed.
Like a storm still boiling under the surface.
“Yeah,” I whisper, falling into step beside him.
The drive home is quiet.
Not the kind of quiet I’ve come to trust, the low hum of comfort we sometimes fall into but something colder. Thicker. Like words are rattling inside Kane’s chest and he’s refusing to let them out.
He keeps one hand on the steering wheel and the other wrapped tightly around mine, his grip unrelenting, almost too much. I don’t ask what happened. I don’t need to.
I’ve seen this version of him before.
It’s not anger.
It’s containment.
He pulls into the compound. Nods once to the guards at the gate. Doesn’t say a word until we’re in the elevator, the doors sliding shut with a soft hiss. Just the two of us, surrounded by mirrors and silence.
I watch him through the reflection. His jaw is tight. His eyes, unreadable.
I reach for him. He lets me.
I slide my arms around his middle and rest my cheek against his chest. He exhales then, sharp and shallow, like he’s just remembered he can.
He doesn’t speak.
He just lowers his head until it rests on mine, and we stay like that all the way up.
He undresses me slowly when we get back to the bedroom, not like before. There’s no teasing. No smugness. Just… care. His fingers brush my collarbone. My shoulders. He peels my dress off like it might break.
I undress him too.
I don’t rush.
Because whatever just happened out there whatever he did or saw or decided it’s clinging to him like a second skin.
When we crawl into bed, he pulls me close.
Closer than usual.
His arm locks around my waist, his hand spread across my stomach. He pulls the blanket over us like we’re hiding from something.
And maybe we are.
I press a soft kiss to his chest. “You gonna tell me what happened?”
His body goes still.
