Page 282 of Corrupting Camille
Later that night, in bed, when he thought I was asleep, he slid beneath the sheets, lips brushing my belly, and whispered in his deadly, tender voice,
“Voy a enseñarte a ser mejor que yo. A amar más fuerte. A pelear más limpio. A vivir sin miedo.”
I’m going to teach you to be better than me. To love harder. To fight cleaner. To live without fear.
And every night since, he’s done exactly that.
His voice, soft but fierce, whispers promises, threats, and lullabies against my skin. Spanish first, always Spanish, that language of prayer and danger. But sometimes English, raw and hesitant, his heart laid bare in ways only darkness allows.
“Tu madre es mi cielo, y tú eres mi sangre. Nadie les tocará mientras yo respire.”
Your mother is my heaven, and you are my blood. No one will touch you as long as I breathe.
When he says it, I believe him.
Every single word.
***
It happens three weeks too soon.
Pain slams into me at two in the morning, sudden and sharp, like a storm breaking. I gasp, curling inward, and Kane’s awake instantly already poised, already protective, eyes clear and razor-sharp despite the sudden chaos. His hand splays over my belly, over my face, voice tight but commanding into his comms. “She’s early. Get Morales here. Now.”
The door crashes open moments later, Lena skidding inside, barefoot, hair a tangled mess, her robe boldly proclaiming World’s Best Bitch across the back. Her eyes widen in panic andfascination. “Holy shit, it’s happening like actually happening. Do we need tequila? Drugs? Someone breathe!”
“I’m breathing,” Kane growls sharply, pacing the room with militant precision. His eyes flick to me constantly, never straying far. I’m his target, his mission, his world.
Lena waves a frantic hand. “Well, breathe somewhere else. You’re vibrating like an unexploded bomb.”
Dr. Morales sweeps in moments later, quick and composed, her team moving swiftly behind her. Suddenly I notice the room has been transformed, oxygen tanks, sterile equipment, monitors glowing softly beside the bed, guards stationed discreetly just beyond the door.
“You built all this?” I pant, gripping Kane’s hand so hard my knuckles whiten, the pain rolling through me again, brutal and raw.
He squeezes my hand tighter, jaw clenched. “I had plans.”
“Of course you did,” I gasp out between contractions. Lena clasps my other hand, leaning close.
“Remind me to never, ever get pregnant.”
The next hours blur together waves of agony, sharp commands from Morales, Lena’s comforting curses, Kane’s fierce grip never leaving mine. And then, suddenly, so suddenly…
He’s here.
My son is here.
His cry splits the air, fierce and demanding, furious at the world that dared disturb him. My heart nearly stops at the sound of him, this tiny warrior, this miracle born from everything Kane and I survived. Dark hair, slick with life and blood, tiny fists clenched and waving defiantly.
Perfectly ours.
Kane doesn’t cry.
But he stares at our son like he’s seeing sunlight after a lifetime of darkness. His knees buckle slightly when Morales places thebaby into his arms, and he sinks to my side, carefully, reverently, gaze fixed in awe and disbelief on our newborn child.
“Mi hijo,” he whispers, voice fractured, open in a way I’ve rarely heard. “Mi legado. Nunca vas a estar solo.”
My son. My legacy. You will never be alone.
My heart cracks wide open, tears sliding down my cheeks, exhaustion and joy crashing together. Kane carefully lays our son in my waiting arms and kneels beside me, forehead pressed to mine, breathing the same broken, beautiful rhythm.
