16. Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Sixteen
K ane
My phone vibrates violently on the nightstand, ripping me from sleep with brutal efficiency.
Camille shifts against my chest, murmuring softly, lashes fluttering as she drifts deeper into dreams. I tighten my arm around her, inhaling the scent of her hair, warm skin pressed into mine.
The phone vibrates again, insistent, urgent. A harsh intrusion into this fragile peace.
I glance at the screen, jaw tightening.
Javi .
Carefully, quietly, I untangle myself from Camille’s warmth, pulling away gently so she doesn’t wake.
Her lips part slightly, fingers twitching on the sheets.
She reaches for me instinctively, and something inside my chest clenches at how quickly, how easily she’s learned to reach for me, even in her sleep.
I grab my phone, stepping silently into the living room, pulling the sliding door shut behind me. The skyline is still dark outside, Manhattan sprawled like a glittering threat below, a stark reminder of the life I built, brick by bloodied brick.
But when I answer the call, it’s not New York that speaks. It’s Miami.
And Miami is never kind.
“Javi,” I snap quietly, voice low and rough from sleep, but edged with impatience. “This better be good.”
“It’s not.” His voice comes through tense, clipped. Javi doesn’t get tense. Javi never fucking gets tense. Ice settles in my veins, sharp and familiar. “You need to come home, Jefe.”
My grip tightens on the phone, heart kicking up. “Details.”
“Not over the phone,” he replies swiftly. “But it’s bad. Worse than the shit with the ports. We found something tonight. Someone.”
“Who?”
A pause. Short. Sharp. Javi choosing words like weapons. “A message. Directed at you.”
I turn sharply, eyes narrowing on the bedroom door. Camille sleeps behind it, oblivious, vulnerable, a softness I never deserved but refuse to let go. My heart pounds harder, tension radiating down my spine.
“Is Diego okay?”
“For now. But there’s talk, whispers. Someone’s making a move, Kane, and it’s personal.”
Personal.
The word hits me like a bullet, tearing open wounds I thought were cauterized years ago. Miami is personal. Diego is personal. His family…my family. Camille…fuck, Camille is personal. Each of them a vulnerability. Each of them something that can be ripped from my grasp.
“I’m on my way,” I tell him sharply. “Meet me at the hangar. Joaquin too.”
I end the call, pulse hammering, fury coiling inside me like a live wire, ready to snap. Every instinct screams for violence. For action. But I breathe deeply, forcing control, tightening the reins on the beast clawing at my ribs.
Because right now, I have to deal with Camille.
I open the bedroom door quietly, stepping back inside. She’s still wrapped in my sheets, moonlight tracing every perfect curve of her body, auburn curls spilling wildly across my pillow. Beautiful, fragile, and utterly mine.
I move closer, leaning over her slowly, lips brushing softly, tenderly, along her jaw, down her neck, gentle enough to wake but careful not to startle her.
“Camille,” I whisper against her warm skin, voice low, coaxing. “Wake up.”
She shifts slightly, as she murmurs my name, slowly pulled from sleep. Her lashes flutter open, heavy and trusting, eyes filled with soft confusion and something clenches violently deep in my chest.
She trusts me.
“Kane?” she rasps softly, voice sleep-rough and vulnerable, her gaze lifting to mine, searching. “What’s wrong?”
“Something came up,” I say quietly, brushing the hair gently back from her face, my thumb lingering on her cheek. “I have to leave.”
Her body stiffens instantly beneath me, tension coiling tight in her muscles, sleep vanishing like it never existed. Her eyes flash wide, suddenly sharp, fear slicing through the soft haze of trust.
Her fingers clutch the sheets like they’re the only thing keeping her from breaking. The second I say I have to leave, I feel it, everything in her pulls taut.
“What…” she breathes, voice fraying, “why? Did I…did I do something?”
Fuck.
I exhale slowly, dragging my palm along her cheek, her jaw, the soft dip beneath her ear. “No,” I say, voice low, firm. “You didn’t do anything.”
But the damage is done. She’s wide awake now, bare and vulnerable, eyes flicking over my face like she’s trying to read what I’m not saying.
I lean in, pressing my forehead hard against hers, breathing her in until my chest aches with the weight of everything I’m holding back. I need her close enough to sink into my bloodstream, deep enough that no one could ever cut her out.
“You’re coming with me,” I say, voice low and rough, leaving no room for questions, arguments, or escape.
She blinks, startled, confusion bleeding rapidly into something wary, uncertain. Her fingers twist tighter into the sheets, clinging to the fragile illusion of safety I’ve just shattered.
“What…?” Her voice is small, unsteady. “Why?”
“Because I’m not leaving you here. Not tonight. Not ever.” I pull back just enough to hold her gaze, letting her see the sharp edge beneath my words. “We’re going to Miami. I have business.”
Her pulse jumps visibly, rapid and erratic, in the hollow of her throat. Her eyes search mine, wide and desperate, wanting answers I won’t give. Answers she doesn’t need yet. She doesn’t know what I am in Miami, the ruthless, merciless version of me who built an empire on blood and bones.
And she doesn’t know yet how easily that darkness will devour her too.
She swallows roughly, glancing down at herself, suddenly conscious of how exposed she is beneath my sheets. “I don’t…I don’t have anything to wear.”
I stand without answering, crossing the room to the dresser and pulling out one of my shirts, black, oversized, carrying my scent like a threat, like a claim. I toss it to her, and it lands softly on the bed beside her.
“Wear that.”
Her eyes widen, disbelieving, wary. “You’re serious.”
I let my gaze drag slowly over her bare skin, her tangled hair, the flushed, bruised lips still swollen from my kisses, my bites, my punishment.
The shirt will barely cover her thighs, barely hide the marks I’ve already left behind.
Good. I want every fucking eye to see what’s mine. To see exactly what I’ll bleed for.
I step forward, gripping her chin firmly between my fingers, forcing her gaze to mine. “If anyone so much as breathes in your direction,” I murmur darkly, “I’ll break every goddamn bone in their body. Do you understand me, Camille?”
Her breath catches, eyes darkening, fear and something else, something raw, something she won’t admit to yet, surfacing behind those lush, anxious eyes.
Slowly, deliberately, she picks up my shirt, slipping it over her head, fabric sliding over bare curves, clinging like a second skin.
No bra. No panties. Nothing beneath but flesh, heat, and my fingerprints still pressed into her bones.
I watch every movement, possessive, merciless, letting her feel my eyes like a brand. When she looks up again, voice cautious and small, there’s a question hovering between us, fragile as glass, dangerous as a blade.
“What kind of business, Kane?”
I run my thumb slowly along the sharp line of her jaw, tracing her pulse, feeling the tension beneath her skin.
“The kind I handle myself,” I answer quietly, final and unyielding, watching as understanding flickers into her expression, dread and fascination twisted into something beautifully destructive.
Because Miami isn’t just a city.
It’s the place where the darkest parts of me live, thrive, consume. And this time, I’m taking her with me, straight into the heart of that darkness.
Camille
Somewhere over the Carolinas, the adrenaline fades and reality settles in.
I have nothing with me. No heels, no makeup bag, not even my phone. Just Kane’s shirt. No bra. No pants. Just this oversized black T-shirt that swallows my body and stops around mid-thigh, and nothing else. That’s all I have between me and him.
The shirt smells exactly like him, cedar, leather, and the kind of trouble that makes my stomach flip. Somehow it feels more like armor than anything designer I’ve ever worn.
I curl up in the plush leather seat beside him, bare legs tucked beneath me, painfully aware of how little clothing stands between us. His palm rests casually on my thigh, thumb tracing slow, lazy circles that send shivers skittering over every nerve ending.
“You realize I packed nothing,” I murmur, my voice low, blending into the steady hum of the jet. “Not a bra, not even toothpaste.”
His gaze dips slowly, deliberately, down my body, darkening at every inch of exposed skin he claims along the way. When his eyes meet mine again, they’re heated, possessive. “You don’t need anything else,” he says quietly. “You look better in my clothes anyway.”
I snort softly, glancing down. “You mean I look like a half-naked hostage.”
“No,” he corrects, voice calm, controlled. “I mean you look exactly how I like you…mine.”
He doesn’t say it like a tease or a threat. Just cold, blunt fact. My pulse quickens, and I look away first.
“Still,” I mutter, clearing my throat, fighting back the flush climbing my neck, “unless you plan for me to wander around Miami half-naked, I’m not exactly decent.”
His thumb slides up just beneath the hem of his shirt, brushing bare skin. Heat pools between my thighs instantly.
“We’ll go shopping when we land,” he says simply.
My eyes narrow suspiciously. “Your version of shopping better not involve leather and restraints.”
He smirks, eyes sparking dark amusement. “Would you wear them if I asked?”
My pulse trips, but I manage a bold glare. “Would you take them off if I did?”
His grip tightens on my thigh just enough to make my breath hitch. “I’ll buy you whatever you want.” He leans closer, his lips brushing the shell of my ear, voice velvet-edged with sin. “But for the record? You’ll always look best wearing nothing.”