Chapter 39 Camilla
I can't stop thinking about his hands covered in blood.
I'm lying in bed staring at the ceiling, my mind replaying the image of Renato standing in the foyer drenched in Al-Zahrani's blood. The expensive suit ruined, his face spattered with evidence of what he'd done.
What he'd done for me.
Did he suffer?
I asked that question without thinking, the words slipping out before I could analyze what they meant. But I meant it. I wanted confirmation that the man who thought he could own me had experienced pain.
And when Renato showed me that photograph, I felt something dark and satisfied settle in my chest.
I should be horrified by that satisfaction.
Instead, I just feel safe.
Protected.
The photo is burned into my memory now. Not the details—those blurred almost immediately. But the reality of it. The proof that Al-Zahrani understood, at the end, exactly what he'd tried to buy.
I roll over, hugging the pillow tighter. Down the hall, Renato is probably lying awake too, waiting to see if I'll him as the monster he keeps insisting he is.
But I don't see a monster.
Not anymore.
I see a man who killed because he couldn't stop himself. Because Al-Zahrani thought he could buy me and that required an answer written in blood.
It's insane. It's violent. It's probably the least healthy thing I could possibly feel good about.
But I do feel good about it.
What does that make me?
I'm tired of pretending I'm the same person I was before all this. Before the kidnapping, before the training, before I killed Kozlov and felt nothing but triumph.
The good girl. The obedient daughter. The perfect aristocrat who never questioned, never challenged, never looked too closely at the ugly parts of her world.
That woman is gone.
Men like Al-Zahrani exist. They buy women. They keep them in compounds. They treat human beings like collectibles.
And men like Renato kill them for it.
I should be horrified.
But I'm not.
Somewhere around 4 AM, I finally drift off to sleep with one thought circling through my mind. Tomorrow, I need to figure out what I actually want.
Not what I should want.
Not what would be healthy or normal or right.
What I actually want from him. From this. From whatever we're becoming.
I wake to sunlight and the distant sounds of the villa coming to life.
I shower quickly and head downstairs, drawn by the smell of coffee and something I can't quite name.
Hope, maybe. The need to see him in daylight.
But when I reach the kitchen, it's empty except for one of the housekeepers.
"Good morning," she says with a warm smile. "There's fresh coffee, and I can prepare breakfast if you'd like."
"Where's..." I stop myself. "Is Renato still here?"
"He had business this morning. Left very early. He said to help yourself to anything you need."
"Did he say when he'd be back?"
"This evening, I think. Maybe late. He had meetings in Milan."
"Thank you," I say, pouring myself coffee I no longer want. "I'll be in the library."
I’m disappointed. The realization sits heavy in my chest. I wanted to see him this morning, to talk to him, to somehow communicate that his violence didn't scare me away. That I'm still here. That I saw exactly what he is and I didn't run.
Instead, I'm sitting alone in a library in an empty villa, waiting for evening like some pathetic captive who's forgotten she's supposed to want to escape.
Except I'm not a captive anymore. Haven't been for a while now, if I'm being honest with myself.
I'm choosing to stay.
I'm choosing to wait for him to come home.
I'm choosing to want to see the man who killed for me.
The day stretches endlessly. I try to read, but the words blur on the page. I swim laps in the pool until my arms ache, but it doesn't quiet my mind. I eat lunch because I know I should, but I barely taste it.
All day, I'm just waiting.
For the sound of his car. For his footsteps in the hallway. For the chance to see him and confirm that what I felt last night wasn't some kind of blood-soaked delusion.
Evening comes. Then dinner. Then darkness.
He still isn't home.
By 10 PM, I give up and go to bed, feeling foolish for spending an entire day waiting for a man who's probably avoiding me because he thinks I'll be horrified by what he did.
If only he knew.
I lie in the dark, listening to the sounds of the empty villa, and try not to feel disappointed.
Then, sometime after midnight, I hear it. A car in the driveway. The front door opening and closing with careful quiet. Footsteps on the stairs.
I hold my breath as the footsteps approach my door and then stop.
He's standing right outside. I can sense him there, separated by just a few inches of wood. Waiting. Listening. Maybe trying to decide if he should knock.
My heart pounds so hard I'm sure he can hear it.
But after a long moment, the footsteps move on. His door opens and closes down the hall.
And I'm left lying in the dark, wide awake again, with all the thoughts from last night flooding back.
But now there's something else mixed in with the satisfaction and the dark comfort of his violence.
There's memory. Sharp and intrusive and impossible to ignore.
What's keeping me awake now is the memory of other hands. Other eyes. Other men who looked at me like I was something to be purchased and used.
I close my eyes and I'm back in that salon. The fake auction that felt so terrifyingly real. Three men examining me while I stood there in that black dress, unable to run, forced to let them evaluate me like I’m less than nothing.
Kozlov's cold blue eyes traveling over my body, assessing every curve. Al-Rashid's calculating gaze as he discussed my "breeding potential." Torretti's clinical assessment, checking my teeth like I was a horse at market.
The memory makes my skin crawl.
But worse than the looking was the touching.
I can still feel Kozlov's hands on me. The way he grabbed my dress and yanked it up, his fingers forcing between my legs without permission, without hesitation. Violating me while pretending it was "verification." His breath hot on my neck as he grunted with satisfaction at finding me "intact."
I drove that fountain pen through his throat, and I'd do it again.
I'd do it a thousand times.
But killing him didn't erase the memory of his touch. Didn't undo the violation of his fingers inside me. Didn't remove the dirty stain of being handled like an object instead of a person.
Those hands. That moment of absolute powerlessness.
And now those memories are lodged in my brain like shrapnel, cutting me every time I close my eyes.
I need them gone. I need them replaced. I need something to think about besides Kozlov's hands and his satisfied grunt and the feeling of being completely powerless while strange men looked at me.
Somehow, some way, I need to reclaim what was taken from me.
The thought crystallizes slowly, taking shape in the darkness. I can't undo what happened. Can't erase those memories or that trauma.
But maybe I can overwrite them.
Maybe I can replace the memory of violation with something I choose, something consensual, something that proves my body still belongs to me.
Maybe I can take back what they tried to steal.
And there's only one person I trust enough to help me do that.
The man who came home covered in blood because he made Al-Zahrani suffer for thinking he could own me. The man who's been trying so hard to give me space and choice and normalcy even though every instinct he has screams to control and protect.
The man who trained me for other men's pleasure while it killed him to do it.
The man who stood outside my door tonight and walked away instead of knocking.
Renato.
I sit up in bed, my heart pounding as I process what I'm considering. Going to him. Asking him to touch me the way he taught me to be touched. Letting him help me rewrite those terrible memories with something better.
It's fucked up. Psychologically complicated. Probably a terrible idea by any therapeutic standard.
But therapy isn't what I need right now.
I need his hands to replace the memory of Kozlov's hands. Need his eyes looking at me like I'm precious instead of purchased. Need to feel powerful and chosen instead of powerless and owned.
Need to prove to myself that what happened in that salon doesn't define what a man’s touch means to me.
I stand up before I can talk myself out of it, my bare feet silent on the marble floor. I'm wearing simple pajamas. Cotton shorts and a tank top, nothing seductive. This is about taking back what's mine.
My body. My choices. My new memories.
The hallway is dark and silent as I pad toward his room. Every step feels momentous, like I'm walking toward something I can't take back. But maybe that's the point. Maybe some things shouldn't be taken back.
Maybe some things need to be walked toward with open eyes and full awareness of what they mean.
I stop outside his door, my hand raised to knock. But knocking feels wrong somehow. Too formal. This needs to be simple. Direct. A choice I'm making without overthinking it.
I turn the handle and push the door open slowly.
His room is dark except for moonlight streaming through the windows overlooking the lake. He's in bed but not asleep, lying on his back staring at the ceiling. When he hears the door, his head turns and he sees me standing there in the moonlight. He goes completely still.
"Camilla?" His voice is rough and wary. "What's wrong? Are you okay?"
I don't answer with words. Instead, I walk to the side of his bed, my hands shaking slightly but my resolve steady.
"I need something from you," I say quietly.
He sits up immediately, concern flickering across his face. "What do you need? Are you hurt? Did something happen?"
"I need you to help me forget."
"Forget what?"
"The auction. The buyers. Kozlov's hands on me." My voice is steady despite the tremor in my hands. "I need you to replace those memories with something better."
Understanding dawns in his eyes, followed immediately by conflict. "Camilla, I don't think..."
"I'm not asking you to think. I'm asking you to touch me." I move closer to the bed. "To help me take back what they tried to steal."
"This isn't..."
"I know what this is. I know what I'm asking." I sit on the edge of his bed, close enough to feel the heat of his warm sheets. "And I'm choosing it. Not because I'm confused or traumatized or trying to manipulate you. Because I need this."
He stares at me for a long moment, and I can see the war playing out behind his eyes. The desire to give me what I'm asking for versus the fear of taking advantage versus the desperate need to be close to me in any way I'll allow.
"If we do this," he says finally, his voice careful, "it's because you want it. Not because you're trying to process trauma through sex. Because you genuinely want this."
"I want this."
"And tomorrow?"
"Tomorrow, we don't talk about it." I meet his eyes directly. "Tomorrow, we go back to whatever we were before. This doesn't mean forgiveness. It doesn't mean we're together. It just means I'm taking back what's mine."
"Your body."
"My choice." I reach out and touch his face, feeling the slight stubble on his jaw. "Will you help me? I need you."
I can see him processing, analyzing, trying to decide if this is the right thing or if he's about to make another terrible mistake.
But I don't need him to decide what's right. I need him to give me what I'm asking for.
"Yes," he says finally. "I'll help you."
Relief floods through me, mixed with anticipation and fear and something that might be desire. "Thank you."
"But Camilla?" He catches my hand, bringing it to his lips. "If at any point you want to stop, you tell me. You don't owe me anything. You can always stop. At any time."
"I know."
"And you leave when you want to leave. No questions, no pressure, no expectations."
"I know that too."
He nods, accepting my terms. Then his other hand comes up to cup my face, his touch gentle despite the calluses and the evidence of violence these hands are capable of.
"Come here," he says softly.
I move into the bed beside him, my heart hammering against my ribs.
Tonight, I choose who touches me.
Tonight, I take back my power.
And tomorrow, we'll pretend this never happened.
But tonight, I'm finally going to replace the memory of Kozlov's hands with something better.
Something I chose.
Something that's mine.