Chapter 45 Camilla
I can't sleep.
I've been thinking about today. About his laughter in the car. About coffee in the mountains. About the way he looked at me when I said it was one of the best days I'd had in a long time.
About the disappointment that flickered across his face when I said I wanted to rest instead of having wine with him.
I saw it.
That flash of hurt before he covered it with understanding. Before he gave me space like he always does, like he's trying so hard to be the man who deserves me instead of the man who took me.
I told myself I needed distance. That extending our perfect day into evening would blur the lines too much, make things too complicated. That maintaining the boundaries between day and night keeps me safe, keeps me in control.
But lying here alone, I realize the truth.
I’m scared.
Scared of how much I enjoyed today. Scared of how easy it was to laugh with him, to be with him, to forget—just for a few hours—everything that brought us here. Scared of wanting more.
I ran to a safe place and retreated to my room.
And now I can't stop thinking about the look on his face when I turned him down.
Two a.m. becomes three, and I finally accept that I'm not going to sleep. That I need to go to him. Not just because my body craves the healing we've found in darkness, but because I hurt him today and I need to make it right.
I slip out of bed and pull on my silk robe. My feet are silent on the hallway floors as I make my way toward his room.
But when I open his door, the bed is empty. Untouched. Like he never even tried to sleep.
Where is he?
I move through the dark villa, following instinct more than logic. Down the stairs, through the foyer, toward the warm glow of light coming from his study.
I pause in the doorway, and what I see makes my breath catch.
He's sitting at his desk, still wearing the same clothes from today. A bottle of scotch sits within reach. A glass dangles from his hand. His head is tilted back, shoulders slumped, and in the pool of lamplight he looks utterly defeated.
Broken.
Like a man who's finally given up on something worth fighting for.
I watch him for a long moment, this powerful man who kidnapped me and manipulated me and now is trying so desperately to be better. Who made me laugh today. Who looked at me like I was the best thing that ever happened to him.
Who's sitting alone in the dark drinking scotch because I pushed him away because I’m a coward.
My heart breaks open.
I move silently into the room, my bare feet soundless on the hardwood. He doesn't hear me approach. Doesn't know I'm there until my hands settle on his shoulders, working into the tense muscles. He goes rigid under my touch.
"Camilla." My name is rough in his throat, disbelieving. "What are you—"
"Why weren't you in bed?" I whisper, leaning close to his ear, my hands slowly massaging the tight muscles across his shoulders.
He's quiet for a moment. "I thought you weren't coming tonight.”
The honesty in his voice—the raw defeat—does something to me.
"I'm here now," I say quietly.
He sets down the glass and reaches around, his hands finding my hips. Then he's pulling me forward, guiding me around the chair until I'm standing in front of him.
His eyes meet mine—dark, searching, vulnerable in a way I've never seen during daylight.
"Are you?" he asks. "Really here? Or am I too tired to think straight? I haven’t slept much since the day I brought you here."
Instead of answering, I let him pull me down onto his lap. Let him settle me there, my legs draped over his thighs, my body curved against his chest.
His hand comes up to cup my face, thumb brushing across my cheekbone with devastating gentleness.
"I hurt you today," I whisper. "When I said no to the wine."
"You had every right to say no. You don't owe me—"
I grab his face with both hands and kiss him.
Cut off his words with my mouth, pouring into it everything I couldn’t say earlier.
Everything I was too scared to admit. Everything that's been building between us through perfect days and healing nights.
The taste of him—warm, dark, like the first sip of wine after a long thirst—fills me, and I let myself drown in it.
My fingers tremble against his jaw, feeling the rough stubble that scrapes my palms, the sharp angle of his cheekbone.
He makes a sound low in his throat, surprise and desperate need all tangled together.
Then his hand is in my hair, gripping just tight enough to make me gasp, and he’s kissing me back with an intensity that steals my breath.
This isn’t like the nights we’ve spent wrapped in each other’s arms, silent and slow, focused on reclaiming what was taken.
Those were about survival, about stitching myself back together one careful touch at a time.
This is different.
This is daylight bleeding into darkness. This is acknowledging what's between us instead of pretending it doesn't exist when the sun comes up.
This is choosing him. Not just choosing healing through him, but choosing him.
Renato.
He stands abruptly, taking me with him. He holds me close in his arms, and he's moving. His steps are sure, purposeful, as he carries me through the study, into the hallway, toward the stairs.
He carries me through shadow and moonlight, his breath breaking against mine in small, ragged bursts.
My back meets the wall halfway up the stairs; the banister trembles with the impact.
His hands bracket my hips, his thumbs pressing into the soft flesh there, grounding me even as the world tilts.
His forehead presses to mine, and for a heartbeat, there’s nothing but the sound of our breathing, the way his eyes search mine—dark and endless, like the sky before a storm.
“Do you understand,” he murmurs, “that you could stop me with one word? That I’d still fall on my knees for you?”
I nod, incapable of speech, my throat tight with the weight of what he’s offering. His mouth finds mine again as he climbs, hungry and demanding. I kiss him back with everything I have, my fingers tangling in his hair, my body arched against his.
He kicks open his bedroom door and carries me inside, and this time when he lays me on his bed, there's no careful control. No holding back.
This is weeks of pent-up passion and desire, the thing we’ve both been holding back for so long it’s become a living thing between us.
His hands are everywhere—pushing the silk robe from my shoulders, sliding up my thighs, gripping my hips with bruising intensity. I arch into his touch, wanting more, needing more, finally ready to take everything.
Cool air grazes my skin just before his palms do, calloused and demanding, mapping me like he’s memorizing every inch.
He breathes my name like a warning to himself.
Every inch he touches becomes a vow not to hurt me.
His head dips to the curve where neck meets shoulder; his lips linger there as if tasting forgiveness.
The nightgown is gone in seconds, discarded without thought, and then his shirt follows, buttons scattering across the floor. His pants are next, and then there’s nothing between us but skin and heat and the electric charge of anticipation.
He pauses above me, his forehead touching mine. The heat between us feels alive. His eyes search mine—not asking permission, confirming it’s already been given.
“If worship had a shape,” he whispers, voice shaking, “it would be this. This is what it feels like when the monster worships instead of devours.”
I see the question there, the flicker of vulnerability beneath the hunger, and I answer by pulling him down to me, kissing him deeply, my legs wrapping around his waist.
This is my answer. This is my choice.
Him.
I choose him.
When he moves, the world contracts to a single line of fire connecting us.
It’s not possession; it’s a silent promise carved in flesh and breath.
I hold my breath as he enters me slowly despite the urgency thrumming between us, his eyes locked on mine, watching for any sign of hesitation or fear. But there's none. Not tonight.
Tonight, I'm not healing.
I'm claiming.
I move against him and he shudders, control fracturing like glass under too much pressure.
“Look at me, Camilla,” he growls near my ear. “Don’t look away.”
I do, and the sight of him undone because of me makes something fierce and claiming rise inside. This is the man who’s seen me at my most broken, who’s held me together when I thought I’d shatter.
And now, he’s mine.
We move together, no longer cautious, the rhythm built from all the days we pretended not to want this, all the nights we lay side by side, aching for more. His mouth is on my neck, my collarbone, my breasts, each touch a brand, a claim.
My nails rake down his back, and he hisses, his hand tangling in my hair, pulling my head back to give him better access to my throat. I gasp his name as pleasure builds impossibly high, my body tightening around him, my skin slick with sweat.
His mouth finds mine again, softer now, tasting the edge of my breath. The world tilts; the ceiling spins; everything narrows to nothing but him.
His hand finds mine and pins it to the mattress—not to trap, but to anchor us in the chaos we created.
This isn’t gentle. Isn’t careful. Isn’t about replacing bad memories with good ones. This is about us. About want and need and the thing we’ve been dancing around for weeks finally breaking free.
The bed creaks beneath us, the sheets tangling around our legs, and I can feel the moment he lets go, the moment he finally stops holding back. His thrusts become harder, deeper, and I meet him stroke for stroke, my body singing with the friction, the heat.
When I come apart, I cry out his name, claiming him as surely as he’s claiming me. He follows moments later, his face buried in my neck.
We collapse together, breathing hard. “You’re safe,” he whispers after a moment, pressing a kiss to my temple. “With me, you’re always safe.”
He starts to move away, to give me space, but I grab him tight and hold him there to keep him close a little longer. My fingers trace lazy patterns on his sweat-dampened back as our breathing slowly returns to normal.
This is different.
Everything about tonight is different.
The silence that falls between us isn't the careful silence of healing sessions. It's the comfortable silence of two people who've finally stopped pretending.
His hand finds mine on the pillow, threading our fingers together. The gesture is so simple, so intimate, it brings tears to my eyes.
I should leave. That's the rule. I always leave before dawn.
But tonight, I don't want to leave.
Tonight, I want to stay.
I close my eyes, my body snuggled tight against his, our hands still linked, and let myself drift.
For the first time since this began, I fall asleep in his bed.
And this time, I don't leave before dawn.