23. Jules #3
“Exactly. So why?” The question sharpens before I can stop it. “Was it just because Bane said the bond needs nurturing? Because I will genuinely lose my mind if you start doing nice things for me because a creepy Council handler prescribed it.”
Camille holds my gaze.
Too steady. Too controlled.
“It improved your emotional state, which reduces instability and risk exposure. The decision was efficient.”
There it is.
I laugh once, short and disbelieving. “Right. Of course. Efficiency.”
“It was the correct decision.”
I study her shoulders, held slightly too tight, and the way her hand drifts towards her watch before she deliberately stops it.
“You could’ve just said you wanted me to feel better.”
“I did. In more accurate terms.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
“It is.”
“It’s not.” Something twists beneath my ribs that has nothing to do with the injury. “God, you’re exhausting. Everything has to be filtered, optimized, and categorized. You can’t just feel something and say it like a normal person?”
“I am responding appropriately to the situation.”
“No, you’re not. You’re hiding behind a corporate press release inside your own brain.”
Her posture stiffens. “I am being precise.”
“You’re being impossible.”
Silence strikes the room.
Her eyes narrow. “If you are finished projecting—“
“I’m not projecting. I’m reacting to the fact that you keep acting like none of this means anything.”
“It doesn’t,” she says flatly. “We have already established that.”
There it is.
That line.
It lands worse the second time.
“Yeah,” I say. “Only married on paper. You made that very clear.”
“Because it is accurate.”
“Is it?”
“Yes.”
“Even after everything?” I gesture between us. “The bed. The sex. You holding me all night like letting go wasn’t an option?”
Her expression tightens for less than a second. “That was an isolated incident.”
I laugh, but there is nothing light in it. “Wow. That’s what you’re going with? An isolated incident?”
“It introduced unnecessary complications.”
“Unnecessary complications.” I stare at her. “You’re unbelievable.”
“I am consistent.”
“It wasn’t nothing.” The words escape before I can stop them.
She does not hesitate when she says, “It was a mistake.”
Something inside me snaps.
“A mistake,” I repeat. “Right. Because you clearly hated every second.”
“I said it complicated the situation.”
“No. You’re acting like it never would’ve happened if some external force hadn’t shoved us together.”
“It would not have,” she says, calm and clinical. “Had the circumstances been properly managed.”
I blink. “What?”
“The room assignment was an error,” she says. “If we had been placed in a room with separate beds as originally intended, the conversation and subsequent situation would not have occurred.”
“You’re blaming the hotel.”
“I am identifying the variable that caused the deviation.”
Oh my God.
“You’re saying you only slept with me because of a booking error?”
“I am saying the absence of appropriate boundaries contributed to—“
“I booked it.”
The words drop between us.
Flat. Final.
Camille stops.
Actually stops.
“What?”
“I booked the room,” I say, crossing my arms despite the pull in my shoulder. “There was no error. I changed the reservation.”
For the first time since I met her, Camille looks genuinely thrown.
“Why would you do that?” she asks.
I let out a breath that’s almost a laugh, but not quite.
“Because I wanted to!” The answer bursts out of me. “Because I thought it would be a good idea. Because I like you. Like, really like you, even though you’re completely infuriating and emotionally repressed and apparently determined to make me regret it. I like you and—“
There it is.
The opening.
The moment where I could actually say it. Where everything in my chest is right there, raw and real and—
Nope.
Absolutely not.
I laugh instead, sharp and too loud.
“And, you know,” I add, waving a hand like it’s nothing, like I didn’t just almost detonate my entire life, “you didn’t exactly seem like you were suffering. Pretty sure you liked my tongue on your clit.”
The silence is immediate and catastrophic.
Camille’s expression closes.
Everything disappears behind the wall.
“Right,” she says, voice cold again. Controlled. Locked down. “That aligns with your established behavioral patterns.”
The words hit cleanly.
I flinch before I can hide it.
“Yeah.” I force a grin. “Glad we could bring it back to the data.”
“This conversation is no longer productive.”
“Of course it isn’t.”
She turns away, already reaching for her tablet like she can file this entire thing under “resolved” and move on.
I hate that.
“Goodnight, Jules,” she says.
Dismissed.
Just like that.
I stare at her back for one second while the adrenaline drains away, leaving something quieter and worse behind.
“…Yeah,” I mutter. “Goodnight.”
Then I grab my phone.
“Where are you going?” she asks.
I head for the door. “Out.”
“You should be resting.”
A disbelieving sound escapes me. I do not bother giving her an actual response.
I need Mina.
Mina will let me be angry for exactly four minutes before wrapping me in a blanket and forcing me to discuss my emotions. Normally horrifying. Currently necessary.
I leave before Camille can turn another concern into an instruction.
The bond stretches as I walk down the corridor, fragile and painfully aware of every step carrying me farther away. Hurt follows me through it.
Mine?
Hers?
I refuse to investigate.
I reach Mina’s room and knock harder than necessary, two seconds from blowing up her phone if she’s not inside.
No answer. I knock again before starting to text her, pacing despite how much it hurts to pace, and drag a hand through my hair, exhale hard, and turn back the other direction. This is stupid.
I’m fine. Everything’s fine.
I just need… perspective. Mina is good at that. She’s soft about it. She doesn’t make every conversation feel like an interrogation.
Footsteps approach from down the hall.
Remy rounds the corner, sees me, and stops. Surprise crosses her face before she smooths it away.
“What are you doing?”
“Nothing.”
Her gaze moves from me to Mina’s door. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s… wrong. I just need to talk to Mina.”
“Then why are you pacing outside her door?”
“I’m not.” I exhale sharply and turn away again, resuming my very-not-pacing. “Unless you’re here to knock me out or give me something useful, I’m kind of busy right now.”
“With what,” she asks, “wearing a hole in the floor?”
Rude.
“I’m thinking,” I snap.
“Dangerous.”
I stop and turn. “You’re not Mina.”
“Correct.”
“Which means you’re not equipped for this conversation.”
“That’s subjective.”
“No,” I say flatly. “That’s factual.”
She steps closer because of course she does. “What do you need Mina for?”
I glare at her. “I just…” I stop and reset. “I needed advice.”
One eyebrow rises. “Oh. This should be good.”
I immediately regret everything. “Never mind.”
I turn away, but her hand closes around my arm. Not rough or forceful. Just enough to stop me.
God, I hate that.
“Let go,” I say lightly. “Before I make you.”
“You can talk to me, Jules.” Her voice is more serious than I want it to be.
“No,” I say. “I can’t.”
“You came looking for Mina.”
“Yeah, because Mina wouldn’t do this.”
“This being?”
“Whatever this is.” I gesture vaguely between us. “This interrogation thing. She’d just talk to me.”
“I am talking to you.”
“You’re judging me.”
“I am not.”
I drag a hand over my face. “Fine. I just needed to ask something.”
Remy waits. She doesn’t rush me or fill the silence, which is somehow more annoying than anything she could say.
“I don’t know what to do,” I admit quickly.
There.
Hate that.
For once, Remy looks genuinely confused. “About what?”
I stare at her. “Camille.”
“What about Camille?”
“Oh my God, do I have to spell it out?” I drag both hands through my hair. “I care what she thinks. I care when she leaves. I care when she looks at me like I’m a problem she already solved, and apparently I care enough to be standing here having this nightmare of a conversation with you.”
Understanding settles across Remy’s face. “You like her.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You described liking her.”
“I described a complex emotional situation.”
“Right.” Her mouth twitches. “This is shocking news. No one could possibly have guessed.”
I take another step away from her. “Okay, wow. Super helpful. Exactly the kind of gentle guidance I was hoping for.”
“You could try being honest with her.”
“That sounds terrible.”
“It might work better than flirting, getting hurt when she takes you literally, and then running away.”
“I did not run.”
“You came here looking for Mina.”
I don’t say anything, which Remy takes as an invitation to continue.
“You’re always giving Kaia advice about Evie,” she says. “You tell her to stop overthinking and say what she actually wants.”
Oh, no.
Absolutely not.
“That’s different.”
“Is it?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
Because it’s me.
I don’t say that. I cross my arms instead.
“Camille made it very clear where she stands, so I’m just not making it worse.”
Remy studies me. “You’re making it worse.”
“Excuse me?”
“By pretending you don’t care.”
I scoff. “I don’t care.”
She looks at me, flat and unimpressed. “That’s not even believable to you.”
Rude.
I open my mouth, then close it. Because okay, maybe she has a point.
Still.
“You’re supposed to be on my side.”
“I am.”
“Then act like it.”
“I am.”
God. Mina would never do this. Mina would say something kind and reassuring. Something that didn’t make me feel like I was being psychologically dismantled in a hotel hallway.
“This is why I wanted Mina,” I mutter.
“She’d tell you the same thing.”
“No, she wouldn’t.”
“She’d say it nicer.”
Exactly.
I laugh, but it comes out thinner than I intend. “Yeah, well. Today’s already been a lot.”
Remy doesn’t interrupt.
Somehow, that makes it worse.
“Natalia showed up,” I say, as though that explains anything. “With Angel. Out of nowhere. Apparently Camille arranged the whole thing, which is cool. Great. Love that. Except now I don’t know what it means, and…”
I stop because my throat suddenly feels tight.
Oh.
No.