Page 164 of Corrupting Camille

“Stay awake,” I snap, injecting him swiftly with adrenaline into his jugular, the sudden surge forcing life back into his failing body. His heart races violently, jerking him awake, wrenching him back into unbearable torment. “There's no quick escape from this Hell, motherfucker."

With cold, clinical detachment, I carve deeper, slicing open his abdomen, guts spilling free with a grotesque, wet plop, intestines slithering onto his lap. He jerks violently, eyes blown wide with primal panic, agony beyond comprehension painting his face.

The stench of bile floods the air, viscera steaming gently in the chilled basement. I examine my masterpiece, satisfied yet hungry for more.

Finally, I carve the words deliberately, brutally, into his exposed ribs:

I'M.

A.

PEDOPHILE

Letters jagged, precise, permanent. His screams fade to whimpers, reduced to animal sounds of sheer torment. As hispulse falters again, another injection of adrenaline forces him awake, prolonging the unbearable agony. Without hesitation, I slice one last time, clean and clinical, severing his cock in a swift, practiced motion. The ruined flesh drops heavily onto the chair beside him, raw and bloody.

Joaquin steps forward silently, handing me a cloth. I wipe my blade carefully, methodically, before calmly cleaning the blood from my face and hands. Douglas is barely alive, reduced to a mass of bleeding, shivering agony.

“Make sure they find him exactly like this,” I instruct quietly, voice devoid of humanity, controlled, absolute.

“They will,” Joaquin replies, eyes as cold and indifferent as my own.

I glance down at the mangled flesh, the desecration a testament to my worship. The blood coating my hands, my clothes, my skin, feels like like redemption.

A ritual.

A devotion she'll never fully grasp.

Camille—my fierce, defiant bruja, she’ll never fully understand the darkness I’ll drown myself in, the monsters I’ll become, to eradicate anyone who dares hurt her.

Camille

I stay away from the office.

Away from Sinclair Media, from the polished marble floors and the cold glass walls where his presence lingers like a ghost, relentless and inescapable. I barricade myself behind emails and Zoom meetings, behind half-hearted lies about feeling under the weather. Anything to keep the devastating promise of Kane Rivera’s touch out of reach.

But distance is meaningless. It’s a hollow defense, useless in a city he owns, because Kane’s reach extends far beyond boardrooms and penthouses.

It finds me at an exclusive cocktail party on the Upper East Side, where laughter spills like champagne and smiles glitter beneath crystal chandeliers. Music whispers, smooth and elegant, conversations carefully meaningless, until someone murmurs his name:

Douglas Everheart.

My heart stops dead. My muscles seize, every cell in my body screaming in sudden, vicious awareness. The room shrinks, compressing down to the single whispered name. My hand clenches around the champagne flute until the glass trembles, dangerously close to shattering.

“What happened?” someone whispers, barely audible above the gentle hum of gossip. But the crowd tightens, leaning in eagerly, vultures circling fresh prey.

“You haven’t heard?” A woman gasps, scandal lacing her voice like fine silk. “It was barbaric. They found him at his Hamptons estate.”

My skin prickling hot and cold in rapid succession. I force down the nausea clawing at my throat, desperate to hear, terrified to know.

“He was tortured,” she continues, eyes wide, relishing the macabre details. “Almost skinned alive, carved up so brutally he was barely recognizable. Whoever did it took their time, hours, maybe.”

My stomach twists violently, bile burning bitter at the back of my throat. Yet I lean closer, compelled, disgusted, needing to know the depth of the horror.

“The worst part?” Another voice, hushed and eager, cuts in sharply. “They mutilated him, they found his genitals next to his body. And carved right into his chest were the words...”

“What words?” The question slipping out before I can stop it.

Faces turn, startled eyes blinking curiously at my outburst.