Chapter 17 Camille
SEVENTEEN
CAMILLE
The predawn light painted the penthouse bedroom in shades of slate and silver. Camille tried to slip from the bed with a thief’s stealth, but the warm, possessive weight of Leander’s arm around her waist tightened instinctively as she moved.
“Leaving already?” His voice was a sleep-rough rumble that vibrated against her spine.
She reluctantly pulled away and stood up, padding to the walk-in closet. Inside, her own clothes now hung alongside his meticulously ordered suits—a tangible merging of their worlds. She chose a tailored sleeveless black dress, its severe lines a kind of armor.
“I want to get to my parents’ place and back to the office before the workday gets into full swing. A quick surgical strike.”
The mattress groaned as he moved, propping his head on his hand. Even in the dim light, his green gaze was laser-sharp. “I can come with you.”
“You have an emergency board meeting to run,” she countered, stepping into the dress and pulling it up. “You need to tell them you’re making me your business partner, remember? That’s more important than standing guard while I pack a suitcase.”
He watched the line of her back as she zipped it up. “It is important. But you are important too.”
She turned to face him. “I know. But this is something I need to do alone. It’s the final signature on the divorce papers from my old life. I need to be the one who signs it.”
She walked back to the bed, the scent of him wrapping around her. She bent down, brushing her lips against his. The kiss was quick but seared with the promise of later.
“I’ll see you at the office in a few hours. Go convince a room full of skeptical men that I’m their best investment.”
His hand came up, his fingers tangling briefly in her blonde hair, holding her close for a heartbeat longer.
“They will soon realize that. Once I lay out your vision, once they see how your mind merges with mine for the company’s future, they’d be fools not to.
” He released her, his expression turning serious.
“Call me. The second anything feels off.”
“I will. But I’m just grabbing clothes. What could possibly go wrong with that?” She gave his arm a final squeeze, then turned before the magnetic pull of him—of the bed, of his safety—could convince her to stay.
Once out in the crisp morning air, hailing a cab, the mate bond stretched like a taut band. It was a physical ache in her chest. She took a steadying breath, focusing on the task at hand.
This is about closure. My closure.
The cab ride was a silent montage of a city waking up.
Her thoughts, however, churned. Last night’s conversation with her mother replayed in brutal clarity.
Not a single question about Camille’s happiness.
No maternal curiosity about the engagement or the new career path that lit her daughter’s soul on fire.
Just cold calculus about social capital and tarnished images.
The sadness was a dull, familiar ache, but layered over it now was a clean, sharp anger.
A mother’s love shouldn’t be conditional.
Arriving at the towering building that had been her gilded cage, relief washed over her when the doorman confirmed her parents were out for the morning.
Good. Clean. Quick.
The penthouse was a museum of polished perfection, silence, and sterility.
She moved through the marbled rooms she’d never truly loved, heading straight for the dressing room that was larger than Serena’s entire apartment.
She worked with efficient haste, folding only the pieces that felt like her—simple silks, well-cut trousers, a few vintage finds she’d secretly adored.
The rest, the parade of couture gowns and stiff, beaded jackets, she left hanging like ghosts.
As she worked, her mind leaped ahead, soothed by the warm, steady thrum of the mate bond.
She imagined walking into Drake Holdings not as the assistant, but as Camille Drake, Partner.
She pictured design meetings where her ideas weren’t just noted but championed.
She saw Leander across the conference table, giving her that look—the one that was equal parts pride, possession, and blistering heat.
She thought of their home, of tangled sheets and whispered plans, of a future where family meant warmth and noise and unconditional love.
A future where she could finally, freely, build.
She was smiling, a real, unguarded smile, as she zipped the second suitcase closed. The bond hummed with Leander’s distant strength, a psychic infusion of courage.
“Packing light. I admire that.”
The voice, smooth as aged whiskey and utterly unexpected, sliced through her reverie.
Camille’s head snapped up. Damian Cross leaned against the doorframe of the dressing room, his posture deceptively relaxed, and his piercing blue eyes fixed on her with unnerving focus.
Her heart gave a violent kick against her ribs. The warm pulse of the bond flared into a sudden alarm.
“Damian.” Her voice held steady somehow. “What are you doing here?”
“I came to see you.” He took a step into the room, his gaze drifting over the half-empty racks.
The air in the dressing room, once just cold and sterile, turned thick and dangerous, pressing in on Camille from all sides. The racks of abandoned couture now looked like silent spectators.
“How did you get in here?” The question cut through the suffocating quiet.
Damian’s smile was a thin, practiced line.
He took a casual step closer, his polished loafers silent on the marble.
“I had a meeting with your father this morning. He and your mother are… deeply concerned. He mentioned you’d be here, collecting your things.
He asked me to pop by, see if I could talk some sense into you. ”
A fresh wave of betrayal, cold and slick, washed over her. They hadn’t just disapproved. They’d called in the cavalry. They’d handed her over like a misbehaving asset to be managed.
“I didn’t ask for that.” Her voice was ice. “And there is nothing you can say to change my mind.”
“Oh, but you will change it.” His tone lost its casual edge, hardening into something absolute.
“Your parents were very clear. I am to do whatever is necessary to convince you not to abandon the St. James legacy. Not to throw your reputation—and theirs—away on some reckless whim with a dangerous man.”
The word ‘whatever’ hung in the air, heavy with implication. Camille’s fingers tightened on the handles of her suitcases. The mate bond, which had been a steady hum of Leander’s focus, suddenly spiked with a distant, questioning alarm.
He felt her panic.
“This conversation is over.” She moved, trying to brush past him with all the regal dismissal she’d been taught.
His hand shot out, his fingers closing like a steel manacle around her upper arm. The grip was brutal, intended to shock and subdue.
“You can do this the easy way,” he said, his voice dropping to a predatory murmur right by her ear. “Or the hard way.”
“I’m not going anywhere with you.” She tried to wrench her arm free, but his hold was immovable.
“Oh, but you are.”
With a sharp jerk, he pulled her forward.
The suitcases fell from her hands, hitting the floor with twin, hollow thuds.
He marched her, stumbling, through the silent penthouse, his grip a brand of possession that made her skin crawl.
The elevator ride to the private underground garage was a cage of his making, his body blocking the controls and his grip tightening on both her arms as she tried to wrestle free.
When the elevator door opened, a black SUV waited. Two unfamiliar men sat in the front, their faces impassive. Damian yanked the rear door open and shoved her inside, sliding in beside her before she could scramble away.
As the vehicle pulled out, Camille lunged for the door handle. Damian caught her wrists, twisting them just enough to make her gasp.
“Keep resisting,” he said, his blue eyes glacial. “And I’ll have no choice but to drug you. I’d hate to do that. You’ll hate it more.”
The clinical threat cut through her panic.
A drugged stupor meant no chance of escape and no way to communicate.
She forced her body to go still, her mind racing.
Leander. The mate bond. She focused inward, on that new, miraculous connection that felt like a live wire straight to his soul.
She poured every ounce of her fear, her location, and her desperation down that line.
Help. Damian has me. He’s taking me somewhere.
Suddenly, as if he’d sensed the psychic whisper, Damian’s head snapped toward her. “Clever girl,” he sneered. He produced a black silk scarf from his pocket. “But I’m not giving you any advantages.” The blindfold was tied tight, plunging her world into oppressive darkness.
“He’ll find me,” she spat into the black. “You won’t get away with this.”
His laugh was low and humorless. “I’ll get away with anything I want.
And let him try to find you. Killing him, removing that obstacle…
it will be satisfying in more ways than one.
I’ll finally get the Alpha title he stole from me years ago.
And I’ll get the girl I wanted before he ever stepped into the picture and ruined my future. ”
His toxic confession poured from his mouth, the words spilling out as the SUV ate up the miles.
“You are the perfect piece, Camille. Marrying you will give me every connection and every social key I need. Our children will cement my legacy.” He paused, clearly pleased with his vision.
“But I have to admit… this is better. Now I have a legitimate reason to kill Leander. A challenge for his mate. For his pride. Thank you, actually. Your reckless little deviation made my future so much brighter.”
Her stomach turned. He saw her only as a strategic piece and a provocation. Her worth was measured in what she could trigger and what she could help him destroy.
Hours passed in the rattling dark. Then, the scent hit her—salty, clean, familiar. The sea air of the Hamptons. Her sanctuary had become his hunting ground.
The SUV soon stopped. Rough hands pulled her out, her heels sinking into soft earth. The air was cooler here, laced with pine and damp soil. The memory surfaced from Saturday: the path through the woods with Leander, the dappled sunlight, his hand in hers.
The Hamptons. Near the woods.
She focused the thought, sharp as a dart, and sent it flying down the mate bond. The response was instantaneous—a volcanic surge of fury, a protectiveness so fierce it stole her breath, and then, clear as if he stood beside her, a psychic command that vibrated in her very bones.
Hold on. I’m coming for you.
Damian propelled her forward. A wooden step, the groan of a door hinge, and then the enclosed scent of old oak and wood smoke. A cabin. He pushed her, and she landed on something lumpy and upholstered—a couch.
“Welcome to your new home,” Damian said, his voice echoing in a small space. “At least until you decide being with me is the right thing to do. And until I finally kill Leander.”
“He’s stronger than you,” she said, yanking the blindfold off. They were in a rustic, single-room cabin, sparsely furnished and shrouded in gloom. “He’ll tear you apart.”
“We’ll see about that. I have something to fight for now that I didn’t before.” His gaze swept over her, possessive and greedy.
The bad feeling in her chest crystallized into a cold, hard knot. This wasn’t just about control anymore. It was about annihilation. Her parents had handed her to a man who wanted to use her as bait in a war for dominance.
The fear didn’t vanish, but it was suddenly flanked by a hotter, brighter emotion. Rage. A pure, undiluted fury that burned away the last traces of the obedient heiress. They thought they could box her in, trade her like stock, force her into a life that was a beautiful, empty shell.
No more.
She wouldn’t let them. She wouldn’t be Damian’s prize or her parents’ puppet. One way or another, she would get out. She would fight. And she would make sure Leander didn’t have to face this monster alone.