Page 55 of Corrupting Camille

“Well,” I say softly, each syllable sharp and deliberate, “at least one of us remembers that night clearly.”

His gaze narrows slightly, the dangerous glint in his eyes sharpening, but I keep my expression carefully indifferent, my smile razor-thin and cool. He wants to break me open, wants me begging again, but I won’t hand him that satisfaction.

Not now.

Not here.

My voice dips lower, mocking sweetness lacing every word as I tilt my head just slightly, like I’m sharing a secret.

“Tell me, do you always get this sentimental about one-night stands, or am I just special?”

His lips curl slowly, dangerously. Instead of irritation, instead of anger, amusement flickers behind his dark eyes. He leans in closer, invading my space further, one strong hand braced against the wall beside my head.

“Oh, Princesa, trust me.” His voice drips low, edged with lethal calm. “If you were nothing but a forgettable one-night stand, I wouldn’t be here.”

My pulse stutters, a traitorous hitch betraying the careful facade I’m clinging to. His gaze drops deliberately to my lips, lingering just long enough to scorch.

“You don’t just haunt my memory,” he murmurs, the edge of his mouth tugging cruelly upward. “You fucking own it.”

I swallow hard, my throat painfully tight. My fingers twitch, aching to shove him back, to strike, to do anything but stand here trembling like prey beneath his scrutiny.

I force my voice steady, cool enough to slice. “Sounds exhausting. Have you tried therapy?”

A soft laugh, dark and rough, escapes him. He leans impossibly closer, his breath hot against my skin as he whispers, “Why would I? Breaking you apart piece by piece is all the therapy I need.”

My stomach plunges violently, a rush of dangerous heat tightening every muscle. I want to push him away. I want to claw at his chest, to slap that infuriating smirk from his lips. But more than anything, the raw, shameful truth is, I want him to follow through.

Instead, I summon every ounce of Sinclair resolve I have left, and stare him down.

“Honestly, this obsession of yours? It’s starting to sound pathetic.”

His expression doesn’t flicker. The lazy smirk remains intact, arrogant, devastating. His gaze holds mine, unwavering, before he finally leans back slightly.

“Obsession?” he echoes softly, thoughtfully. “No, Camille. This is just good, old-fashioned hunting.”

He steps back further, giving me the illusion of breathing room, though we both know it’s too late.

“I always catch what I hunt, princesa,” he murmurs, eyes glinting dangerously. “Always.”

Mercifully, the elevator dings sharply, the doors sliding open to freedom.

I don’t hesitate.

I shove past him, pushing hard against the solid wall of muscle that is Kane Rivera. He doesn’t stop me, doesn’t even reach for me, just moves aside with a mocking ease, making my desperate exit feel even more humiliating.

Heat floods my cheeks as I rush out into the hallway, my pulse hammering violently, my breath shallow. I nearly stumble in my urgency to put distance between us, my heels clicking urgently against marble.

Behind me, I hear his voice, low, rough.

“Run as fast as you want, Princesa,” he calls softly, dark amusement woven through every word. “We both know exactly where you’ll end up.”

I don’t turn around.

I don’t dare.

Because he’s right.

And that’s what terrifies me most.