Page 253 of Corrupting Camille

Saltwater stings my nostrils. We’re near the ocean, some hidden dockyard, isolated, fortified. Temporary fencing, razor-wire, half-rusted shipping containers. Guards in tactical gear flank the entry. Guns on hips, rifles slung loose. One man twists a blade casually between calloused fingers, sunlight glinting off the edge.

They shove me forward, through metal doors, into darkness that swallows the sun. Cold, damp air, smelling faintly of diesel and salt, curls around me, chilling my bones. I stumble again, rough hands shove me upright, deeper into the space, toward a single chair bolted to the center of a barren concrete floor.

A figure waits in shadow.

Rojas.

He lounges casually, ankles crossed, a crystal glass of whiskey glinting amber in his grip. Crisp shirt, impeccable suit jacket, his dark eyes glittering calmly, as if my kidnapping was just another tedious task on his agenda.

His gaze flickers lazily over me. “I wondered if you’d ever wake up.”

My throat is sandpaper, raw from screaming, lips cracked. “Go to hell.”

His smile sharpens, humorless. “Oh, Camille. We’re already there.”

A single nod. One of his men slices through the zip tie, releasing my wrists. Pain and relief rush in, sudden and overwhelming. I rub the bruised, angry-red skin, willing my trembling hands still, refusing to show weakness.

I meet his stare evenly. “What do you want from me?”

“From you?” He takes a slow sip, ice clinking softly. “Nothing complicated. I want Kane Rivera to suffer. And you, well, you’re the perfect blade for the cut.”

A chill spiders down my spine. “You’re wrong. I’m not his weakness.”

He chuckles softly, dangerously. “No. You’re much worse. You’re the obsession he can’t control, the reason he’ll finally choke on his blood.”

My breath catches, heart faltering before hammering even faster. “You don’t know him.”

“Oh, I do.” His voice is velvet and venom. “And I know men like him only fall when they love something enough to kill for it.”

He sets down his glass, leaning forward slowly, gaze locked onto mine like a predator sizing up wounded prey.

“Tell me, Camille,” he whispers silkily, “how long do you think it’ll take to break him…once he sees what I’ve done to you?”

Kane

The map sprawled across the SUV hood is meaningless now.

A blur of red entry points, grainy surveillance stills, and satellite images flicker in my periphery like noise behind the only thing that matters:

Camille.

Javi’s briefing sounds distant. Joaquin’s voice, tight with tension, clips through updates I barely register. Every cell in my body is burning with restraint I can no longer hold.

“She’s in the northeast quadrant,” Javi says. “No movement in the last twenty minutes.”

My jaw tightens. Muscles coil beneath my skin, the silence too deep, too artificial. This isn’t caution, this is theater. A carefully staged invitation, laid out in blood and razor-wire, daring me to step into their trap.

They want me to see.

And they think I’m weak enough to hesitate.

“Breaching from the ground will get us slaughtered,” Joaquin growls from beside me, eyes dark and narrow, voice raw from pain. “They’ve reinforced every entrance, every wall. They’ve fortified their position.

“So have I,” I say coldly, my voice stripped of mercy, quiet enough to carve bone.

I feel their eyes slide to me, wary. Waiting.

But my silence isn’t fear, it’s calculation. Ruthless, surgical. Because this isn’t a rescue. This isn’t mercy. This is execution, carved deep into every breath I take.