33. Jules #2
I laugh. “Way to make romance sound like demon combat.”
“For us, the distinction has been inconsistent,” she says.
“Fair.”
She steps closer until our bodies touch carefully, mindful of my ribs. I lean into her, resting my forehead against hers.
Eventually, I glance towards the cream folder. “How soon can you move?”
“Most of my belongings can be transferred tonight.”
I pull back. “Tonight?”
“I own fewer unnecessary objects than you do.”
“Every object I own is necessary.”
“You have a plastic skeleton in the Lounge.”
“Craig is not an object. He is a colleague.”
Camille looks at me with the exact expression of someone reconsidering every decision that led her here.
I squeeze her hand. “Still yes?”
Her answer comes with another small smile. “Still yes.”
Something in my chest settles.
The system is still out there. The residual channels remain active. Somewhere in Northern California, a woman who escaped Eon may have the missing piece we need, assuming she does not disappear the second she sees us.
Voss is watching Camille. Eon is watching all of us.
The Patron is waiting.
None of that changes because Camille is moving into my apartment.
But this does.
This room stops being another place Eon assigned me. It becomes ours.
Not because of the contract, the public story, or the magical bond stitched between us.
Because we chose it.
“You were right,” I say after a moment.
Camille’s eyebrow lifts. “About what?”
“The system. Eon. All of it.”
“Yes.”
I huff a laugh. “God, I hate that.”
“I’m aware.”
“We didn’t stop it.”
“No.”
“We barely slowed it down.”
“Yes.”
I tilt my head. “Are you always this encouraging, or is this a special occasion?”
“Would you prefer inaccurate reassurance?”
“No.”
“Then no.”
Fair.
Annoying, but fair.
I look through the window at the city below us. Millions of people living their lives without knowing something beneath the stages, screens, and songs has been feeding on them.
I can still feel the memory of it.
Not here. Not inside me.
But waiting.
“Hey,” I say.
Camille turns towards me. “What?”
“Next time we fight something like that, you’re not stepping into it.”
“That was the most effective intervention available.”
“I don’t care.”
“You should.”
“I don’t,” I repeat. “It almost got you.”
The words tighten around my throat.
I remember that executive’s hand on her arm. The cold spreading through the bond. The certainty that something was about to use Camille to reach me.
“You could have been taken,” I say.
“So could you.”
“Yeah, but I’m me.”
“That is not a valid or reassuring distinction.”
“It is to me.”
Camille studies me. Then her hand rises to my face, and her thumb brushes gently beneath my eye.
“Then you are not permitted to throw yourself between me and demons while injured,” she says.
“No promises.”
“Jules.”
“Fine,” I sigh. “We both agree to fewer dramatic self-sacrifices.”
“None.”
“Let’s be realistic.”
Her eyes narrow.
“Fine. None.”
“Thank you,” she says.
“Look at that. Marriage is already teaching us compromise.”
I lean into her hand.
Camille’s thumb traces the curve beneath my eye. The bond opens between us, carrying everything she does not say: fear left over from Tokyo, relief that I am here, and the quiet happiness that has been warming her since I asked her to move in. Then her expression shifts towards concern.
“You need to shower.”
I blink. “Wow. Romance is alive.”
“You have been wearing the same clothes since this morning, and there is likely adhesive residue from the medical tape along your ribs.”
“You really know how to make a girl feel desirable.”
“I did not say you were undesirable.”
“No?”
Her eyes move over me slowly enough to make my skin heat. “No.”
The single word lands low in my stomach.
I catch her wrist and press another kiss to the center of her palm. “Then take one with me.”
Camille glances towards the bathroom, already calculating the wet floor, my knee, my ribs, and at least twelve additional hazards normal people would not identify before getting naked with their wife.
“You are still injured,” she says.
“I’m aware. My body has been sending strongly worded reminders.”
“Jules.”
“We’ll be careful.” I slide my hand down to lace our fingers together. “I don’t want anything dramatic. I just want you.”
The words take the teasing edge out of the room.
Camille looks at me for a long moment. The bond opens wider, carrying a flicker of fear from Tokyo, happiness from my invitation, and something softer that still startles me whenever I feel it from her.
Love.
Not duty. Not stabilization.
Love.
“All right,” she says.
I grin. “That sounded dangerously enthusiastic.”
“It was consent, not applause.”
“We can work on your delivery.”
She leads me into the bathroom before I can say anything worse.
The Tower apparently believes pop stars require showers large enough to host a small press conference. Pale stone, glass walls, three settings I have never learned how to operate, and a built-in bench I once used to store six unopened boxes of hair dye until Camille found them.
She turns on the water and tests it with her hand. Camille turns back towards me and reaches for the hem of my shirt. Her hands pause before touching it.
“May I?”
The question softens something inside me. “Yeah.”
She lifts the fabric carefully, keeping it away from my ribs. I raise my arms as far as I can without pulling anything, and she guides the shirt over my head. Once we get the bandaging off my ribs, her expression tightens when she sees the bruising along my side.
It has faded from black-purple to several deeply unsexy shades of yellow and green.
“Hot, right?” I ask.
Her fingertips hover above the worst of it without making contact. “You should not have been on that stage. I should have stopped it earlier.”
“You did stop it.”
“After it hurt you.”
I catch her hand before she can pull away. “Cami.”
She looks at me.
“You got me back.”
The bond tightens between us, carrying the memory neither of us needs to describe. My body moving without me. Her voice cutting through it. Her love hitting harder than the thing trying to hollow me out.
I press her hand over my heart. “I’m here.”
Her fingers curl against my skin. “Yes.”
“And you’re here.”
“Yes.”
“Then help me get naked before this turns into another feelings summit.”
Camille exhales through her nose, but the tension around her mouth eases.
She unfastens my trousers and eases them down over my hips. I brace one hand on her shoulder while stepping out of them, careful with my wrapped knee.
Her gaze tracks every movement.
“You are doing the medical-monitoring thing again,” I say.
“I am ensuring you remain upright.”
“Very sexy.”
“I can stop.”
“Absolutely not.”
That earns me the smallest smile.
I reach for her blouse. “My turn.”
Camille lets me undo the buttons one by one. Normally I would rush, impatient to get my hands underneath, but tonight I take my time. Each opened button reveals another strip of warm skin. Her breathing changes when my knuckles graze the center of her chest.
She watches me with the same intensity she brings to every problem, except I am not a problem tonight.
At least not exclusively.
I slide the blouse from her shoulders. “You wore the cuff.”
“I always wear it.”
“I noticed,” I say.
“I know.”
“Cocky.”
“Observant.”
I lift her wrist and kiss the gold cuff, then the skin just beneath it. Her pulse jumps against my mouth. And furthermore…
Camille’s watch is slightly misaligned, and she doesn’t attempt to straighten it.
The bond glows with quiet pleasure.
I like that I can feel it now without either of us panicking. I like knowing what affects her. I like even more that she is beginning to let me know deliberately.
I remove her trousers and underwear with less ceremony, because I am still me and patience has limits. Camille steps out of them, standing naked in front of me with her platinum hair falling loose around her shoulders and her composure held together by nothing but habit.
I stare. “You’re beautiful.”
The words come out before I can hide them beneath something clever.
Camille goes still.
I touch her waist, drawing her towards me. “You are. It’s honestly annoying.”
Then she kisses me. Slowly. There is no desperation in it, no panic, no system forcing our bond wider than either of us is ready for. Camille kisses me because she wants to, and I feel that choice in every careful press of her mouth.
I open for her.
Her tongue brushes mine, and heat rolls through me. I grip her hips, pulling her close until her naked body fits against mine. The pressure against my ribs makes me flinch.
Camille breaks the kiss immediately.
“Pain?”
“Barely.”
“That was not the question.”
“Yes. A little.”
She steps back despite my attempt to hold her. “Into the shower.”
“You’re very commanding for someone who just agreed to move into my apartment.”
“It will become our apartment,” she says.
The words hit me harder than they should.
Our apartment.
I follow her beneath the water before she can see exactly what that does to me.
Warm water runs over my shoulders and down my back. Camille adjusts the spray so it avoids the worst of my bruising, then reaches for the soap.
“I’m capable of washing myself.”
“I know.”
She pours some into her palm.
I let her.
Her hands move over my shoulders first, firm enough to ease the tension but gentle around every injury.
It should feel clinical.
It does not.
Every touch is slow and deliberate. She traces me as though reassuring herself I am whole. Her fingers skim beneath my breasts, over my stomach, and down my hips.
My breath catches.
Camille looks up.
“That didn’t hurt,” I say.
“I know.”
Her hand slides between my thighs.
I widen my stance without being asked.
“Show-off,” I murmur.
“You invited me.”
“I’m very glad I did.”
Her fingers glide through me, finding me already wet despite the water. The first touch against my clit makes my hips jerk.
Camille’s other hand steadies my waist.
“Careful,” she says.
“You cannot touch me like that and demand reasonable motor control.”
“I can.”
“Dictator.”
She circles my clit again, watching my face.