Page 278 of Corrupting Camille

My chest tightens painfully. “I’m trying,” I whisper back, voice breaking. “But I don’t know if the man who left you last night survived the flames.”

She takes my hand slowly, pressing it gently to her stomach, warm and fragile beneath my touch. Our baby. My heir. My reason to breathe, to fight, to come back.

“Then we rebuild,” she says softly. “We create something new together.”

I stare at her, this woman who sees every broken piece of me and still refuses to turn away. Stronger than any enemy I’ve faced, braver than any soldier I’ve buried.

I finally breathe.

“Come inside,” she murmurs, tugging me gently forward.

I nod, following her silently into the house, into the ruins I’ve created, to the family still shattered but holding on.

Lena watches us from the shadows, eyes wide, reverent, silent. She doesn’t speak, doesn’t move, sensing something sacred unfolding.

Further down the hall, Rosa and Lucia stand quietly together, still shaken, fragile. Lucia’s gaze meets mine, wide and haunted but not afraid, not of me, never of me. She steps forward, cautious but determined, and suddenly her small arms wrap fiercely around my waist.

“I know what you did,” she whispers, voice raw, fractured. “I know you made them pay.”

I kneel slowly, carefully pulling her close, eyes shut tight against a pain I can’t put into words. “I’m sorry, Lucia,” I whisper brokenly. “I’m sorry I couldn’t save your father.”

She shakes her head fiercely, pulling back enough to look me square in the eyes. “You saved me.”

And just like that, I feel something in my chest ease, just a fraction, but enough.

I nod slowly. Because that, at least, I can believe.

Chapter Twenty-six

Camille

I don’t say anything as I gently take Kane’s hand and lead him away, past Lena’s careful silence, past Rosa’s grateful eyes, past Lucia’s quiet strength. He doesn’t protest, doesn’t hesitate; he follows like a shadow, silent, hollowed out, broken but trusting.

Our bedroom feels different, heavier, quieter. Every surface seems to absorb Kane’s pain, his grief settling into the walls around us like a confession whispered in the dark. I pull him slowly toward our bathroom, closing the door behind us with a soft click that sounds final and sacred.

Turning on the shower, I watch steam curl slowly upward, fogging mirrors, filling the space with warmth and intimacy. Kane stands motionless, staring blankly at nothing, the blood on his clothes a violent reminder of what he’s done, what he’s lost, what he’s carried home.

Wordlessly, I step close and begin stripping him bare. His eyes close briefly, surrendering completely, trusting me with the wreckage of himself.

Slowly, carefully, I peel away his blood-soaked clothes. Each button undone, each layer removed feels like stripping away a piece of the armor he’s always worn. The black shirt falls to the floor, heavy and stained, revealing skin marked by tattoos, blood and violence. My breath catches painfully, but I don’t flinch away.

He stays silent, chest rising and falling unevenly as I reach for his belt, carefully sliding it free, easing his pants down until they pool at his feet. He steps out of them, eyes shut tight, jaw locked, as though trying to hold himself together by sheer force of will.

Steam billows around us, softening every edge. He stands in front of me utterly vulnerable, powerful yet broken, terrifying yet heartbreakingly human. I slide out of my dress, stepping forward to press myself against him, skin on skin, heartbeat to heartbeat.

“Come,” I whisper, taking his hand and guiding him gently into the shower.

The water cascades over us, hot and cleansing, running clear, then red, then pink, then clear again as it rinses away his pain. I pick up the soap, working it tenderly over his skin. My hands slide slowly, reverently along his shoulders, down the hard muscles of his back, carefully scrubbing away the darkness clinging to him.

I kiss every bruise, every scar, lips brushing softly, whispering forgiveness against his broken skin. My fingers thread through his wet hair, cleaning away ash and blood, smoothing away the violence and regret. I lean up on tiptoes, pressing gentle kisses to his jaw, his throat, his collarbone.

And then I take his hands.

I cradle them carefully, washing away blood, scrubbing softly around bruised knuckles. I kiss each finger tenderly, reverently, whispering silent prayers for the violence he’s endured, for the sacrifices he’s made. Kane shudders under my touch, breathing harsh, raw, desperate.

Slowly, I sink to my knees before him.

He watches me silently, eyes wide, shattered, disbelieving as I gently lift his foot into my hands, carefully washing away the remnants of the night, the dust, the blood, the death. My thumbs trace every arch, every muscle, every scar that carried him home. I lean forward, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to his skin, heart aching with the depth of my love.