Page 9

Camille

The cabin creaks with every gust of wind, and the wooden walls are groaning under the pressure of the storm outside. I sit cross-legged on the old couch, the faint scent of damp wood and pine filling the small space. My fingers fidget with the locket hanging from my neck, the cool metal grounding me in the overwhelming silence. étienne’s necklace. A gift he left for me.

I sigh and lean back, the weight of the past few days pressing down on me like an anchor. Diego left hours ago, his parting words clipped and distant. As if I’m some fragile thing that needs to be locked away, hidden from the world.

But he doesn’t understand. Or maybe he does, and that’s why he keeps leaving.

I glance at the pile of papers scattered on the coffee table in front of me. étienne’s notes, his letters, the fragments of his life I’ve been trying to piece together since the day he died. Each page feels heavier than the last, filled with names I don’t recognize, places I’ve never heard of, and cryptic phrases that seem designed to keep me out.

But I can’t stop.

I pick up one of the notebooks, the worn leather cover rough under my fingers. étienne’s handwriting is messy, rushed, like he was always running out of time. I flip through the pages, scanning for something—anything—that makes sense.

One entry catches my eye, the words underlined so many times the pen almost tore through the paper.

Infiltrate. Gain trust. Play the part. Loyalty tested.

My breath catches as I read the lines again. Infiltrate? What was he talking about? My fingers trace the edge of the page as I lean closer, my pulse quickening.

The next lines send a chill down my spine:

Befriended Diego Navarro. Dangerous. Calculated. But useful.

I sit back, the air leaving my lungs in a rush. Diego’s name stands out like a scar across the page, glaring and inescapable. étienne didn’t just know him—he used him.

My mind spins, the pieces of a puzzle I didn’t know I was solving starting to shift into place. étienne wasn’t just caught up in something bigger—he was orchestrating it. But how? Why?

I flip to the next page, desperate for answers, but the words blur as my eyes dart over the text. Thunder rumbles outside, the sound vibrating through the floor, and I grip the necklace tighter, my nails digging into my palm.

Before I can read further, the door bursts open, slamming against the wall with a force that makes me jump.

Diego stumbles inside, his shirt soaked with rain and darkened with blood. My breath catches as I take in the state of him—his face pale, his movements sluggish, one hand pressed tightly to his side.

“Diego!” I’m off the couch in an instant, rushing toward him as he kicks the door shut behind him.

“I’m fine,” he grits out, but the way he sways on his feet says otherwise.

“You’re bleeding,” I say, reaching for him, but he steps back, his glare sharp despite the pain etched across his face.

“It’s not as bad as it looks,” he mutters, his voice rough.

“Sit down,” I snap, my worry overpowering the frustration bubbling beneath the surface. “You’re not fine, Diego. Stop pretending you are.”

He hesitates, his jaw tightening, but he doesn’t argue. Instead, he moves toward the couch, each step slow and deliberate.

I grab the first aid kit from the cabinet, my hands shaking as I fumble with the latches. The room feels too small now, the air too heavy.

“You’re supposed to be resting,” he says, his voice quieter now, almost teasing.

“And you’re supposed to stay alive,” I retort, kneeling beside him as I set the kit on the table. “Looks like we’re both bad at following instructions.”

Despite the tension, his lips twitch into something that might have been a smile.

As I reach for the antiseptic, my eyes flicker to his face. He’s watching me, his gaze steady.

The storm outside grows louder, the rain pounding against the windows.

“Diego,” I say softly, my voice trembling. “What happened?”

For a moment, he doesn’t respond. Then, his eyes shift away, focusing on the window as if the answer is somewhere out there in the darkness.

“Nothing I couldn’t handle,” he says finally, but the words feel like a lie.

And as I press the cloth to his wound, my fingers brushing against his skin, I can’t shake the feeling that whatever battle he fought out there isn’t over.

Not for him. Not for me.

Diego sits on the couch, his shirt discarded and the angry gash on his side partially cleaned. I work silently, my fingers brushing his skin as I press the bandage into place, trying to ignore the way the contact sends jolts through me.

He’s watching me, the intensity in his gaze unnerving me and making my insides flutter. I have to fight my mind to keep from ogling him.

“You’re good at this,” he murmurs, his voice breaking the quiet.

I glance up, my hands freezing for a moment before I force myself to keep working. “At what?”

“Taking care of people.”

The words are simple, but the way he says them, low and soft, makes my chest tighten. I shrug, trying to keep my voice steady.

“I don’t have much of a choice, do I? You walked in here half dead.”

A small smirk tugs at his lips, but it fades quickly, replaced by something more serious. “It comes with the job description.”

“Your job could get you killed one day, Diego.” I chuckle under my breath but my words are deathly serious. “Tell me, did my brother do what you do? Did he…did he kill people and get hurt like this?”

That question has been gnawing at me for weeks now. Ever since I came to the conclusion that he may have been involved with underground shit, I have been wondering how bloodied his hands were.

He leans back against the couch, wincing slightly. “The truth isn’t going to make you feel better, Camille. It’ll only make this worse.”

“I don’t care if it makes it worse,” I snap, my voice rising. “I need to know. I deserve to know.”

For a moment, he just looks at me, his gaze sharp but conflicted. Then he lets out a low sigh, his hand running through his damp hair. “You think knowing why your brother did what he did or why I did what I did will bring you peace? It won’t. It’ll just tear you apart.”

I sit back on my heels, glaring at him. “You don’t get to decide what I can handle, Diego. You don’t get to keep holding all the cards and expecting me to just... follow your lead. I’m not some fragile little thing you need to protect. I’m not—”

Before I can finish, he moves, his hand catching my wrist mid-gesture, his grip firm but not painful. The sudden contact sends a spark through me, silencing my words.

“You’re not fragile,” he says, his voice low and rough. “But you’re not invincible, either. And if you keep pushing, you’re going to end up like étienne.”

The mention of my brother stings, but it’s not anger that surges through me this time—it’s something else. Something deeper, messier. I stare at him, my breath catching as the space between us seems to shrink.

“Let go,” I whisper, but it comes out weaker than I intended.

He doesn’t. His eyes hold mine, the intensity in them stealing the air from my lungs. “Camille...”

I don’t know if it’s the storm outside or the storm inside me, but before I can think, I lean forward, closing the distance. My lips brush against his, tentative at first, testing, waiting for him to pull away.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, his hand moves from my wrist to my jaw, his touch rough and desperate as he kisses me back. The room disappears, the fear and confusion and anger melting into the heat of the moment. His lips are warm, demanding, and everything I didn’t realize I was craving.

My hands find their way to his shoulders, gripping him tightly as if he might disappear. His other hand moves to my waist, pulling me closer until I’m practically in his lap. The kiss deepens, and for a fleeting moment, it feels like nothing else matters.

But then, just as quickly as it started, he pulls away.

“No.” His voice is hoarse, strained, as he pushes himself to his feet. “I can’t.”

I blink up at him, breathless and stunned. “Diego—”

He shakes his head, backing away as if I might pull him back in. “This can’t happen, Camille. It’s not... It’s not right.”

My chest tightens as he grabs his shirt from the table, ignoring the bloodstain spreading across it. He pulls it on with sharp, jerky movements before heading for the door.

“Where are you going?” I ask, my voice rising with a mix of anger and hurt.

“I need air,” he mutters, yanking the door open and stepping out into the storm.

I just sit there, my mind spinning. Then anger flares, hot and consuming. I grab my coat, shoving it on as I head after him, slamming the door shut behind me.

The cold rain pelts my skin the moment I step outside, but I barely notice. Diego is standing a few feet away, his back to me, his shoulders hunched against the storm.

“Diego!” I call out, my voice sharp.

He doesn’t turn, but I see the way his hands clench into fists at his sides.

“What the hell was that?” I demand, stepping closer despite the rain soaking through my clothes. “You don’t get to just walk away like that.”

He finally turns, his expression hard but conflicted, his hair plastered to his forehead from the rain. “Go back inside, Camille.”

“No.” I cross my arms, ignoring the chill seeping into my bones. “You can’t just kiss me and then act like it didn’t happen.”

His jaw tightens, and I think he might snap. But instead, he takes a step closer, his voice low and filled with frustration.

“You think I wanted that to happen? You think this—us—is something I can afford to feel?”

The raw emotion in his voice takes me off guard, but I don’t back down. “You don’t get to decide what I feel, Diego. And you sure as hell don’t get to run away from it.”

He stares at me, the storm raging around us. It feels like the world is holding its breath.

But I’m not letting this go.