17. Chapter Seventeen #3
But they have no fucking clue the nightmare they’ve awakened.
I press my thumb to her picture, beneath the curve of her jaw. My hand dwarfs her face, blocking everything but her eyes, eyes that stared up at me just hours ago, vulnerable, trusting, fierce even as she fell apart beneath me.
She won’t be collateral. She won’t be hunted, watched, and analyzed like a crack in my defenses.
Because Camille isn’t a crack.
She’s the fuse.
And when I find the bastard who lit it, I won’t grant mercy.
I’ll teach him exactly how long a human can survive without teeth. Without fingers. Without hope.
I’ll whisper her name in his ear before cutting out his tongue, so he never taints it again. So he chokes on the name he thought he could use against me.
And when he begs with his eyes for mercy?
I’ll remember Camille’s smile. Her laugh.
And I’ll fucking take everything.
***
I find her exactly where I knew she’d be.
She’s standing barefoot on polished marble, bathed in fading gold from the Miami sunset flooding the west sitting room.
My black shirt still drapes loosely over her body, swallowing every curve yet somehow highlighting everything beneath delicate lines, smooth skin, quiet strength.
The most intoxicating fucking sight I’ve ever laid eyes on.
She’s not wandering.
She’s not lost.
She’s strategizing.
Camille stands utterly still, her arms crossed beneath her chest, pulling the dark fabric tighter over her breasts.
Her eyes lock onto the antique chessboard, unblinking, like she’s mid-battle, calculating a hundred lethal moves ahead.
The pieces, aged ivory and polished onyx, handcrafted in Italy, sit arranged neatly, perfectly, in a formation I instantly recognize.
The Sicilian Defense.
Bold. Aggressive. Ruthless.
Exactly like how she plays.
She doesn’t hear me approach, and I don’t make a sound.
Silence is my weapon, stealth my advantage.
Crossing the room, every step absorbed by plush, woven rugs until I stand right behind her, close enough to breathe in her warmth.
Her scent coils into my lungs, vanilla, always that intoxicating vanilla and something sharper, sweeter, distinctly hers.
In one smooth, controlled movement, my arm curls around her waist, pulling her flush against my chest. Her breath hitches softly, body pressing instinctively back into me, perfectly aligned, like she knows exactly where she belongs.
“Looking for something?” I murmur, voice dark velvet brushing her ear.
She doesn’t turn around. Doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t yield. “I was bored.”
“And chess was your entertainment of choice?”
“I didn’t realize it was decorative.”
“It’s not.” My gaze flicks to the board again, memorizing her every move. “You opened with the Rossolimo. Interesting choice.”
She shrugs slightly, defiantly smug. “Maybe I wanted to see how you’d counter.”
My thumb strokes lazily along the curve of her waist, tracing hidden shapes against the fabric. “I already know how you play. Watched you studying the board back in New York. You weren’t faking it.”
Her answer comes slow, loaded with quiet challenge. “I never fake it…with you.”
Each word lands sharp, charged, intentional.
My grip tightens, fingers branding her flesh as I press a possessive kiss into her neck, brief, rough, marking territory. Then, without another word, I lead her from the room.
She follows, quiet but unhesitating.
We walk through shadowed hallways, past wrought-iron staircases and arched doorways, deeper into my wing. Her bare feet whisper against stone, legs exposed, hair tousled, looking fierce and wild, dangerous. Perfect. Utterly fucking mine.
My suite is expansive, dark marble, rich tapestries, high ceilings framed by exposed beams. Sunlight spills through tall arched windows, painting everything in shades of amber.
I move silently, purposefully, toward the master bath, reaching for brass taps set in a porcelain tub beneath the open skylight.
Water steams upward, coiling through beams of dying sunlight.
Cedar, bergamot, and heat perfume the air.
Camille lingers in the doorway, watching my every move. Patient. Quiet. Waiting for my next step.
I turn toward her, crossing the distance slowly, deliberately, until we’re inches apart. I reach for the shirt, lifting it gently. She lifts her arms obediently, allowing the fabric to slide free and fall silently away.
She’s naked. Exposed. Bathed in molten sunlight and shadows.
Utterly, devastatingly mine.
My eyes roam over every inch of her, taking my time.
Memorizing. Her skin glows, silken perfection marked only by faint, beautiful imperfections, three delicate beauty marks forming a tiny triangle near her left nipple, a constellation waiting to be explored by tongue and teeth.
Soft, perfect breasts, crafted to fit my palms; nipples hardened beneath my gaze, begging for my mouth.
The curve of her waist invites my fingers, my hands, my grip.
Wide hips framing a pussy so perfectly designed for me it makes my jaw clench with barely restrained hunger, made for my mouth, my tongue, my cock.
Long, toned legs made to wrap around my hips, feet beautifully manicured, begging to press against my shoulders, my chest, my mouth.
A goddess.
Mi diosa.
Tonight, I’ll worship every inch of her body until she forgets who she is, until the only name she knows is mine.
Without breaking our locked gaze, I take her hand gently, guiding her toward the steaming water. She steps into the porcelain tub, heat swallowing her thighs, hips, breasts. A soft gasp escapes her lips as she sinks down, her eyes drifting shut, tension draining from her shoulders.
I drop to one knee beside her, roll up my sleeves slowly, deliberately, and reach for the cloth. Silence hangs thick between us, punctuated only by soft breathing, the quiet drip of water, the pounding rhythm of possessiveness in my chest.
My hand moves with purpose.
Slowly.
Thoroughly.
I trace every line, every curve. Cloth brushes gently over her jaw, trails down her throat, glides along her collarbone.
Water streams down her chest, slipping through the valley between her perfect breasts, rolling over her stomach, disappearing into the curves of her waist. My fingers flex, desperate to follow.
Patience.
I lift one slender arm, washing it tenderly, rinsing carefully, before lowering it back into the water. Then the other. Every gesture methodical. Controlled. Intimate.
No words exchanged. Only touches. Commands given in silence.
When I guide the cloth down her spine, my palm settles at her hip, coaxing her forward gently.
Her body bends willingly, muscles flexing beneath silken skin.
Each vertebra revealed, mapped by cloth and fingertips, a slow journey downward…
I halt at the small of her back, inches away from temptation… just above where I ache most to claim.
I pause.
Restrain myself.
Barely.
Finished, I drain the tub, helping her rise, wrapping her in thick black fabric, my robe swallowing her once again, leaving only glimpses of flushed skin. Kneeling before her, I towel-dry her hair softly, reverently, as if she truly is sacred.
She opens her eyes slowly, gaze soft, trusting. Waiting.
I tilt my head slightly, mouth curving into something dark, promising. “Want the tour?”
She nods once, quiet but undeniably curious.
I take her hand, pulling her close, leading her deeper into my world.
My secrets. My darkness. My sanctuary.
The east wing, private quarters, empty now but still under surveillance. The weapons room, though I don’t let her linger there. The high library with shelves that stretch to the ceiling and hold books I haven’t had time to read in years. The rooftop overlooks where the ocean roars.
All of it.
This empire I built.
All for me.
And maybe, now, for her.
But I save the garage for last.
It’s spotless. Concrete and glass, illuminated by recessed lights and the subtle gleam of chrome and steel. Every car here tells a story, how I earned it, what I took to keep it, who I became driving it.
And she walks straight to the Bugatti.
Jet black. Polished to a mirror.
Her fingers trail along the hood, reverent. “This one.”
I step behind her.
Close.
So close.
“You like it?”
“It’s...intimidating.”
“So am I.”
My hand finds the robe’s belt.
One pull.
Then another.
She stills. But doesn’t stop me.
I slip the robe off her shoulders slowly, letting it slide down her arms. It drops to the floor in a whisper.
Her skin gleams under the soft lights. She’s warm, flushed from the bath, mouth parted, body exposed to me in the place that defines me.
I brush my fingertips up her stomach. Over her ribs. To her breasts. I play with her gently, thumbing her nipples, watching her shiver.
“Turn around.”
She obeys, slow and breathless, dark eyes wide with anticipation.
I guide her forward until her palms press flat against the sleek, unforgiving hood, her back instinctively arching, legs parting. My chest presses against her back, my lips grazing her ear.
“You feel sacred here,” I admit softly, the raw honesty shocking even me. “You’re the first…the only person I’ve ever brought inside.”
She shudders, a small, trembling question spilling from her lips. “Why?”
I stroke her spine, possessive yet tender. “Because no one else has ever mattered enough.”
She tilts her head slightly, breath quickening as my hand slides lower, gripping her hip tightly.
“This car,” I confess quietly, voice rough and thick with memories, “it was my reward after revenge. The first thing I gave myself after I reclaimed everything. Blood, sweat, fury, it’s all here, locked inside this metal.”
She turns her head, eyes soft yet knowing as she meets my gaze over her shoulder. “You built yourself from pain.”