Page 260 of Corrupting Camille
He flinches slightly. Not visibly, he’s too controlled for that, but I feel it beneath my palm. That fracture of guilt he won’t ever speak aloud.
“Camille…”
I stop him gently. “You came for me.”
His eyes darken, glittering fiercely. “Always.”
I know what that means, what it cost. I saw it in his eyes when he walked into that room, a hurricane of vengeance, raw, relentless.
I reach up, cupping his face, feeling the stubble scratch my palm. “I don’t regret any of this. Not you. Not us.”
His expression softens by a fraction, eyes haunted. “I’m supposed to keep you safe, Camille. That’s the deal.”
“You did.”
“You don’t understand,” His voice breaks slightly, just enough that I see beneath his armor.
“You’re not just mine. You’re my reason for breathing, my reason for fucking existing. If I lose you…”
“You won’t.”
“…there won’t be anything left,” he finishes harshly, like a vow. “Nothing but blood and ashes.”
My heart pounds heavily, grief tangled with love, fear twisted with a fierce, unyielding kind of devotion. “Then we bleed the same. We burn together. Because I’m never leaving you.”
He exhales sharply, closing his eyes briefly. When they reopen, the darkness isn’t gone, but it’s tempered. Warmed by something deeper.
“I’m yours,” he whispers finally. “To the fucking bone.”
I nod, pulling his mouth to mine gently, letting the kiss say everything we can’t yet speak aloud.
We’re survivors now, forged by blood and violence and loss. We’re more than lovers. More than partners.
We’re bonded by something unbreakable.
And even if hell itself rises to drag us down, we’ll descend hand-in-hand, because neither of us knows how to let go anymore.
And neither of us wants to learn.
Kane
She settles against me, but there’s no softness. No release. Her spine remains rigid, breathing shallow, careful, like she’s balancing on a blade’s edge, a single wrong breath away from shattering.
I feel her tremble, the silent vibrations of fear and strength wrapped into one body, one soul, so fucking fragile, yet stronger than anything I’ve ever known. And I realize the truth sharply, painfully clear: if I speak now, if I move wrong, she’ll crumble right here, right now, in my arms.
So I stay quiet.
I hold her with a patience I’ve never allowed myself before, my palm resting at her waist, thumb tracing slow, gentle circles. No demands. No expectations. Just touch, just presence, steady and unconditional, trying to anchor her in a moment where nothing else is safe.
The silence spreads, thick, charged, humming softly with every shadow we’ve barely survived, every horror still waiting just outside our locked doors. But I know darkness. I’m accustomed to trauma. Ready for violence, for grief, for screams.
What I’m not ready for is Camille pulling away slightly.
She doesn’t speak. Doesn’t look at me. Instead, she takes my hand, guiding it downward, her fingers trembling slightly as she positions mine, carefully, purposefully, against her stomach.
My breath stalls in my chest, my lungs refusing to move, my pulse hammering behind my ribs like gunfire, sharp and wild.
Camille places her own hand over mine, pressing softly, as if holding us both together. Then, in a whisper so fragile it feels like spun glass, she says it:
