Page 60 of Penalty Kiss
"What's wrong?" he asks quietly.
I look up into his maple-warm eyes, and something inside me breaks a little.
Because Erik is right—Cam would throw himself in front of a freight train for me. He's already doing it. And his family, his brilliant doctor family, is probably right about what's best for his health.
But the thought of him leaving, of facing Lucien and the Delacroix empire alone, makes me want to curl up in a ball and hide.
"Tara," Erik's voice pulls me back to the phone. "I'm not the villain here. I just want my son to get better."
"I know," I manage. "I want that too."
"Talk to him. Make him listen to reason. And Tara? If you do love him—keep him safe. Even if that means letting him go. Thank you."
The call clicks off before I can even reply.
The screen goes black. My reflection stares back: wide-eyed, robe crooked, like a kid who just got caught doing something wrong.
Erik's words echo in my head.If you love him—keep him safe. Even if that means letting him go.
"Rookie." Cam's voice is gentle but firm. "What did my dad say?"
I don’t get the chance to answer. His phone starts buzzing, Erik taking the conversation back where it belongs.
Cam glances at the screen, and in a heartbeat, the playful, post-sex glow evaporates from his face. Gone is the man who just worshipped my body with his mouth and hands. In his place sits someone formal, guarded.
He answers before it goes to the second ring.
"Cameron." The voice that comes through the speaker is curt, authoritative. NotCam—Cameron. Even I can hear the difference.
"Hey, Dad. Sorry, I was—"
"Are you alone?" Dr. Erik Wilder interrupts, his tone carrying that particular brand of medical authority that brooks no argument.
Cam glances at me, and I see something flicker across his face. Vulnerability? Embarrassment? "No. Why?"
"We need to talk."
"What? Why?" Cam's voice has gone tight.
"Because according to the local police chief, you're involved in some kind of stalking situation. Because your last three texts have been increasingly erratic. And because when I called Levi to check on you, he mentioned you've been 'playing bodyguard to a local woman.'"
"Dad, you’re on the speaker. And dad, it's not—"
"Cameron." The single word carries enough authority to straighten spines from three states away. "Your mother’s worried sick. Your brother thinks you're having some kind of episode related to your PCS."
I watch Cam's jaw clench, the muscle ticking with barely contained frustration. His free hand balls into a fist on his side.
"My head is fine," he says, but I can hear the doubt creeping in. The same doubt I saw the other day when he couldn't remember if I'd mentioned the lemons.
"Son, post-concussion syndrome doesn't work that way. You can't just decide you're better because you want to be."
Dr. Wilder's voice softens slightly, and I catch a glimpse of the father beneath the decorated Army physician. "Your cognitive load has increased significantly. New environment, highstress, irregular sleep patterns—these are all triggers we discussed."
"I know what we discussed." Cam's voice is sharp enough to cut glass.
"Do you? Because yesterday you texted me asking if I was at the Walter Reed National Military Medical Center in Maryland. Cameron, that was two months ago."
The silence that follows is deafening. I watch the color drain from Cam's face, watch him struggle with a memory that apparently isn't there.
