18. Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Eighteen
C amille
After, we stay like that.
Folded into each other.
The air thick with heat and breath and something heavier than either of us can name.
His hands run down my sides slowly, soothing. Reverent. Like he can’t stop touching me. Like he needs to remember every inch.
And I let him.
Because I’m not sure who I am right now.
I just know this…whatever just happened in this garage?
It changed everything.
***
He carries me.
Not like I’m fragile. Not like I’m breakable.
But like he doesn’t want to let me go.
My arms are around his neck, my head tucked securely into the curve of his shoulder, my body still throbbing with the echo of how deeply he’s claimed me.
His scent, cedar, leather, sex, wraps around me, a sensual cocoon, warm and protective.
My muscles ache deliciously, skin sensitive, the memory of his mouth, tongue, and touch burned into my body in ways I’ll never forget.
We say nothing as he ascends the staircase. My eyes drift shut, trusting him implicitly to guide me through the labyrinth of his estate. I let him hold me, fully surrendering to the comforting power of his embrace, safe in the knowledge he won’t drop me.
Not tonight.
Not ever.
When we reach his bedroom, he sets me gently onto the edge of the massive bed.
His fingers brush my hair from my face with infinite care, lips softly pressing against my temple before he quietly disappears into the adjoining bathroom.
I hear running water, the soft scrape of cabinets opening and closing, and the faint sound of him moving purposefully.
A few minutes later, he returns, bare-chested, droplets of water clinging to his skin, a thick black towel wrapped low around his hips. Without a word, he scoops me into his arms again, as if the brief separation had been unbearable.
I expect him to carry me into the shower, but instead, he carefully lowers me onto the plush edge of the deep porcelain bathtub he’d prepared earlier. He sits in front of me, dipping a soft cloth into warm, fragrant water.
Then, slowly, reverently, he begins washing me.
His touch is gentle. Quiet. A stark contrast to the fierce possession in the garage. He cleanses every inch of me with quiet precision, brushing the cloth tenderly over the tender skin of my inner thighs, the backs of my knees, and down to my ankles.
It’s so unbearably intimate that my breath catches. My heart beats erratically, overwhelmed by the softness in his gesture, a stark reminder that I’m more to him than just conquest. More than his obsession.
“Kane…” My voice comes out barely above a whisper, trembling with raw emotion.
“Shh,” he murmurs, not to quiet me, but to soothe me, like the word itself is a balm.
His hand pauses mid-stroke, the cloth still warm against my thigh, and for a moment, he just breathes.
Deep. Measured. Like if he moves too fast, he’ll ruin whatever this is between us.
“Let me be selfish...this is for me....I claim you, I own you, I hurt you...your pain...your pleasure It all belongs to me. And I cherish you in ways I don’t even have language for. ”
His voice is hoarse, wrecked, not with lust, but with something deeper. Something that scrapes the edges of obsession and bleeds into reverence.
“I don’t know how to do this gently,” he says again, cloth abandoned now as his fingers trace bare skin with reverent slowness. “But I can do it like this. Like worship. Like I’m putting you back together every time I break you.”
My lips part, but the words stay lodged in my throat. Because what could I possibly say to match the weight of that?
He kneels between my legs, still wrapped in that black towel, his body glistening with the remnants of the water he’d drawn for me. But he doesn’t touch me again. Not yet. He just looks at me, like he’s trying to memorize every freckle, every mark, every bruise his hands left behind.
He wraps me once more in his robe, pulling it snugly around me. When he lifts me again, I curl instinctively against his chest, content to be held. Content to trust, completely, blindly.
This is new territory for us both.
And I’m terrified of how much I crave it.
He places me gently in bed, pulling back the sheets and sliding in beside me. His warmth envelops me instantly as he draws me against him, skin to skin, heartbeat steady beneath my cheek.
He says nothing at first, just traces gentle patterns along my spine, slow and rhythmic, a touch designed solely to soothe.
I feel safe.Cherished.Owned, but in the safest possible way.
Finally, his voice breaks the comfortable silence. “You good?”
I smile softly against his skin, lips brushing the spot just above his heart. “Better than good.”
He exhales deeply, holding me even tighter, fingers threading into my hair. “Stay close to me. No matter what happens next.”
It’s not a request; it’s a promise. A warning.
But I’m too tired, too deeply wrapped in him, to ask questions now. So, I just nod, sinking deeper into his warmth.
For tonight, at least, I’ll let myself believe nothing can touch us.
***
It’s day five.
I wake up in Kane Rivera’s bed wearing silk that clings like breath, black, sheer, criminal.
The tag was still attached when I found it, buried beneath layers of fine cashmere, Italian leather, and fabrics that cost more than most people’s rent.
His closet, not mine. And yet… it’s been curated for me.
Bras that fit like they were sewn straight onto my skin. Underwear so soft, so barely-there, it feels obscene. The kind of lace that shouldn’t be legal.
He even stocked shoes in my exact size.
Louboutins with red soles sharp enough to draw blood. Manolo Blahnik mules in soft blush satin. Delicate So Kates I’d never wear in public, but now find myself craving, to stalk barefoot down his marble halls with stiletto elegance and nothing else.
Balenciaga sneakers in matte black, their minimal design deceptively quiet but unmistakably expensive.
A pair of Amina Muaddi platforms with those signature flared heels, like glass dipped in attitude.
Loewe flats with gold hardware, soft as butter, the kind of understated luxury that whispers instead of screams.
He didn’t guess. He studied.
Not the PR perfect heiress I sold to the world.
Me.
The girl who strips off her control in private. The one who likes to feel pretty, but powerful. Expensive, but ruinable. The kind of woman who wants to be seen and still taken.
It’s equal parts terrifying and intoxicating, being known this thoroughly. Anticipated. Curated. Possessed.
Because Kane doesn’t just buy gifts. He builds altars.
And I’m the offering.
The first day I slept. Deep, dreamless, as if my body finally collapsed under months of tension and secrets.
The second, I wandered. Got lost. Found a room tucked away in the eastern wing, lined with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, big velvet chairs, a record player with Nina Simone already spinning. I stayed there for hours.
By the third day, the stillness started to itch beneath my skin. The guards stopped reacting to me. The housemaids smiled gently. Kane’s presence became more ghost than man, gone before breakfast, back only when the moon was high and I was already naked in his bed.
He consumes my nights.
But my days?
They’re starting to feel...empty.
So I made a friend.
Sort of.
His name’s Leo, and he’s Kane’s personal chef, or, more accurately, the culinary magician responsible for the quiet five-star meals that show up whether I ask or not.
Late twenties, golden-brown curls, arms covered in tattoos of knives, fish, and citrus.
He’s Cuban American, sharp-witted, fast-talking, and completely unbothered by who Kane is.
Which is probably why I like him.
We bonded over mint tea and my refusal to eat anything pink and raw, no matter how “beautifully marbled” it is.
Today, he’s prepping ceviche barefoot on the stone floor, shirt rolled at the elbows, hands moving like choreography across a cutting board, and I’m perched on one of the island stools with my chin in my hand, laughing so hard it actually hurts.
He says something wildly inappropriate in Spanish about Kane’s taste in women, laced with obvious admiration, not disrespect, and I snort, nearly choking on my drink.
“You’re going to get yourself killed,” I warn him, still laughing, wiping the corner of my eye.
Leo shrugs, grinning. “If I’m gonna die, this is the way to go. Beautiful woman, good lime, a little risk. Let’s make it poetic, baby.”
I roll my eyes but can’t stop smiling. For the first time in days, I feel...normal. Not like a kept thing. Not like prey. Just Camille. Hair messy, skin warm from the sun streaming in through tall glass windows, wearing a white cotton dress and bare feet on cold stone.
I’m still giggling when I feel it.
The shift.
The air goes taut.
Heavy.
Like a wire pulled too tight.
Leo notices it too. His knife pauses mid-slice, and his eyes flick up behind me.
I don’t need to turn around to know.
Kane’s home.
And he’s watching me.
Kane
The laughter dies the instant I step into the kitchen.
Everything freezes.
Leo’s knife hovers mid-air, his eyes flicking up to mine, wide, wary. Camille’s perched casually on the stool, bare feet tucked beneath her, still wrapped in white cotton that clings like innocence I no longer believe. Her head angled back, lips parted, eyes bright with laughter still fading.
She doesn’t belong to innocence.
She belongs to fucking me.
Heat rushes beneath my skin, thick and vicious. Jealousy burns through me like battery acid, dark, poisonous, brutal. I know this feeling well, it’s the shadow always lurking beneath the careful control, the one thing capable of reducing me to nothing more than violence wrapped in expensive suits.
And right now, that shadow is waking up hungry.