Page 62 of Corrupting Camille
His words slice me open, the humiliation of that boardroom moment flooding back with fresh rage.
“You think buying a seat on the board makes you powerful?” My voice is venom, sharp-edged and shaking. “You’re nothing but a criminal in an expensive suit.”
His smirk deepens, unbothered, amused by my fury. “You should know, Camille, your tantrums don’t change reality.” He tilts his head, eyes dark and ruthless. “You answer to me now.”
“I’ll never answer to you,” I hiss, fists clenched tight.
His laugh is quiet, darkly amused. “That pride is cute.” He leans in again, crowding my space, eyes drifting slowly over my body. “But we both know how easily I can break it.”
“You don’t control me,” I whisper fiercely, meeting his gaze head-on. “You can have Sinclair Media, but you’ll never have me.”
He smiles, slow and devastating, leaning closer until his mouth is inches from mine, voice dropping dangerously. “Interesting theory. Too bad your body keeps proving you wrong.”
“You arrogant bastard,” I spit out, trembling with anger, humiliation raw and bitter. “You humiliated me in front of everyone. Tried to destroy everything I’ve built. But I’ll fight you every fucking step.”
He leans even closer, lips grazing my jaw, the casual intimacy burning through my resistance. “I’m counting on it.”
He gently tucks a strand of hair behind my ear, the tenderness mocking, poisonous, knowing exactly how deeply he’s gotten under my skin. “Now you know exactly how to get my attention,” he murmurs roughly. “All you have to do is beg.”
The car halts smoothly at my family’s brownstone, and I wrench the door open, escaping into air not tainted by his scent.
I force a brittle smile, sharp and defiant. “Hold your breath while you wait.”
I straighten my spine, refusing to look back, refusing to acknowledge his laughter, low and cruel, chasing me into the night like a shadow.
Because no matter how much I fight it, I already know I’ll end up back in his arms, shattered, shaking, craving more of what will ruin me.
Kane
I watch her go.
I don’t chase.
I don’t have to.
She’ll carry me with her, under her skin, between her legs, in every breath she tries to steady. My presence is a bruise, blooming beneath the surface. She can scrub her skin raw, drown herself in heat and guilt, but she won’t wash me off.
The townhouse door slams.
And I breathe.
Not relief.
Possession.
Upstairs, a light flickers on. Her shadow crosses the glass.
My jaw tightens.
My fingers twitch on my thigh, still tingling from where I touched her. Where I ruined her.
She’ll fight it. She’ll pace in her perfect little room, rehearse lines, whisper denials. Try to stuff me into a box marked mistake.
Let her.
That box is already burning.
I lean back in the seat, inhale deep, but she’s still in my lungs. On my tongue. Under my nails. A fucking fever I can’t sweat out.
