17. Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Seventeen
C amille
The heat hits me first.
It clings to my skin, thick and sultry like an unwanted lover’s touch, intimate, oppressive, unavoidable.
This is Kane’s city, a fact that becomes clearer with every step we take off the private jet.
Miami breathes differently; it pulses like him, raw, magnetic, dangerous.
Salt and jet fuel saturate the air, sharp on my tongue, making my pulse quicken in warning.
Kane’s grip tightens around my hand, a firm promise.
He doesn’t glance down, but I sense him anchoring me, claiming me.
His touch whispers fiercely, You belong with me.
I lean into him, my side pressed against his, absorbing the quiet strength he offers.
Maybe I’m crazy, maybe this entire thing is twisted and terrifying, but right now, Kane is my only safe place in a city brimming with threats I can’t yet understand.
Joaquin stands waiting near a sleek black Escalade, mirrored sunglasses hiding eyes I’ve seen hold dark truths. Beside him, another man watches silently, tall, younger, lean muscles taut beneath his fitted shirt, his expression unreadable. I’ve never seen him before.
Kane offers them both a brief nod, authority evident in every subtle gesture, power radiating off him effortlessly. The stranger, someone Kane’s never mentioned, steps forward smoothly, opening the back door of the SUV. He offers me a respectful nod, voice low. “Senorita.”
“Thank you,” I whisper back uncertainly, but Kane’s fingers tighten again, a clear warning wrapped in possessiveness.
Kane’s palm presses into the small of my back, guiding me forward possessively as he angles his body slightly between me and Javi, subtly shielding me. His voice is low, commanding. “Camille, this is Javi. He manages certain things for me down here.”
Javi inclines his head respectfully, his eyes unreadable but probing gently beneath his lashes. “It’s a pleasure, senorita.”
I nod quietly, murmuring a polite, “Nice to meet you,” though I can feel Kane’s tension beside me, a barely restrained possessiveness radiating from his body like a silent threat.
Without another word, Kane ushers me into the back of the Escalade.
The leather seat chills my bare skin, and before I can adjust, he settles close so close I’m practically in his lap.
One strong arm slides behind my shoulders, the other coming down firmly on my exposed thigh.
His thumb rubs absently, branding me quietly, deliberately, a clear and dangerous signal: Mine.
The car doors close with a muffled thud, cocooning us in silence and simmering tension.
Kane’s warmth surrounds me, but my senses sharpen when I realize Javi’s eyes are on me again, this time lingering blatantly, just a fraction too long, on the stretch of bare skin where Kane’s shirt has ridden dangerously high.
Heat floods my cheeks, awareness prickling over my flesh.
Kane stiffens immediately, the air around him going deadly still. His voice slices through the quiet, cold enough to freeze blood. “Eyes up, Javi, or you lose them.”
Javi jerks his gaze away instantly, throat working visibly as he swallows, tension sharpening his jaw. “Lo siento, jefe,” he mutters softly, subdued. “It won’t happen again.”
Kane’s fingers flex on my thigh, possessive yet reassuring, thumb stroking once more to calm the subtle tremble he must feel beneath his touch. He shifts his attention fully to Javi now, tone deceptively smooth yet edged with steel. “Start talking. Tell me exactly what’s going on.”
Javi hesitates again, clearly uncomfortable. His gaze flicks briefly toward me, wary of my presence, uncertain how freely he can speak.
Kane’s patience fractures visibly, his voice dropping dangerously lower, lethal, commanding. “If I trust her enough to keep her this close, you trust her enough to speak. Now, talk.”
“It’s bad,” Javi says. No hesitation. No sugarcoating.
Kane’s jaw tightens, but his voice stays cool. Controlled. “How bad?”
Javi hesitates this time, as if choosing his words carefully. “Mateo wasn’t the only one. There’s been retaliation. Two more hits overnight. One of Diego’s warehouses burned.”
Kane absorbs this in silence, the shift in his energy palpable. His knuckles flex briefly against the seat, fingers brushing my shoulder softly, almost absently, as if reassuring himself I’m still here.
Still safe.
“Does Diego know who?” Kane asks, quiet now. Dangerous.
“He has suspicions,” Joaquin interjects softly. “He’s waiting on you.”
Kane’s mouth curves into something darkly cynical. “Of course he is.”
The conversation fades, but the tension remains, thick and charged, the air heavy with unspoken threats. Kane stares straight ahead, eyes hard and distant, mind already strategizing, calculating, preparing for the war he’s clearly about to step into.
My fingers drift to his thigh, squeezing softly, trying to anchor him the way he’s anchored me since the moment we touched down.
He glances at me then, eyes shifting from lethal to something softer, warmer. “You good?”
“No,” I admit softly, eyes locked with his. “But I’m here.”
His thumb brushes across my cheekbone, gaze lingering like he’s memorizing my face, grounding himself. Then he leans in, forehead touching mine. “Stay close. No matter what happens.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
His eyes flare at that, satisfaction and possession rolling through him, and he kisses me, deep and quick, marking me before we arrive, before the world outside can see the cracks and vulnerabilities beneath his armor.
When the car finally slows, pulling through gates into a sprawling estate lined with palms and guarded by men who watch with cold, vigilant eyes, my heart quickens.
This isn’t just a home. It’s a fortress.
And suddenly I understand everything, this war, these men, this place, it’s Kane’s legacy, his empire, and I’ve just stepped into the eye of his storm.
He helps me out of the car, palm at the small of my back, his voice low and steady against my ear as he leads me toward the imposing front doors.
“Remember what I said, Camille.” His words are quiet but ironclad. “Stay close. Always.”
***
The moment we cross the threshold into Kane’s home, the air shifts.
It’s immediate. Palpable. Like walking into the calm before a gunfight.
The foyer is marble and shadow, opulent but cold. Five men stand waiting, like statues carved from violence. Javi and Joaquin among them, though Joaquin, I notice now, isn’t just Kane’s right hand.
He’s blood.
The way he stands beside the others, at ease but ready, tells me everything I need to know. This isn’t a meeting. It’s a war council.
And Kane?
He changes.
Right in front of me.
It’s not dramatic. There’s no sound. No warning.
One second, he’s the man who just held me together midair with his mouth and his body and the weight of a love neither of us were supposed to feel.
The next, he’s something else entirely.
His shoulders square. His eyes sharpen into cold obsidian. The warmth drains from his expression like someone flipped a switch. He doesn’t let go of my hand, not yet, but I can already feel the distance creeping in, like he’s retreating somewhere I can’t follow.
Not now.
Not here.
“Kane,” Joaquin says, nodding once. “They’re in the main room.”
Kane gives a barely perceptible dip of his chin. “Good.”
He doesn’t acknowledge the others. Doesn’t need to. His presence alone commands the space.
He walks forward without a word, and I move with him.
My bare feet whisper across the polished floor, the hem of his shirt brushing the tops of my thighs as I try to keep up with his longer stride. I feel underdressed and out of place. Half-naked, no makeup, no armor, just Kane’s scent on my skin and his desire between my thighs.
And somehow, that’s the only thing keeping me grounded.
We reach a wide archway that opens into a cavernous glass-walled room. Ocean light spills across stone floors, casting everything in a warm, unforgiving glow.
A man stands at the far end, back turned, staring out at the horizon like it personally owes him something. His posture is power. Controlled. Coiled. Even before he turns, I know, this is Diego.
“Kane,” he says as he turns, his voice thick with gravel and quiet steel. “Hermano.”
Brother.
He’s older than I expected. Mid-fifties maybe. Scar across his jaw. Dark, storm-gray eyes that assess everything and give nothing back. There’s a heaviness to him that reminds me of Kane, not in body, but in spirit. Like he’s buried men and smiled after.
The two men clasp forearms, tight, hard, and pull each other in for a brutal, one-second hug. It’s not affection. It’s code. History. Survival.
They slip into Spanish.
Low and fast, words trading between them like bullets.
“Reyes está detrás de esto.”Reyes is behind this.
“Lo sabía.”I knew it.
“él cruzó la línea.”He crossed the line.
And then Kane shifts again, this time back to me. Hand on the small of my back, grounding, protective, but no longer tender.
His face is unreadable as he speaks. “Diego, this is Camille Sinclair.”
My name feels like a weapon on his tongue.
Diego turns his gaze to me, slow and assessing. His stare is the kind that peels back layers. Not cruel. Just thorough. Like he’s trying to see what Kane sees, and whether it’s worth protecting.
After a long beat, he nods. “Bienvenida,” he says, voice low. “You’re in good hands.”
“I know,” I manage, throat dry.
Diego turns to the others. “Come.”
They disappear through a set of heavy doors, flanked by glass and stone, deep into the house.
And then we’re alone again.
Except we’re not.
Not really.
Kane turns to me so fast I barely register the movement before his hands are on my face.
One on each cheek. Firm. Desperate.
And then his mouth crashes down on mine.
It’s not soft.
It’s devastating.