13. Ryan
Ryan
“One night,” I repeat, because apparently if I say it enough times, the universe will be forced to respect the terms and conditions.
Camille regards me with the expression of a man who has already heard the statement, understood it perfectly, and sees absolutely no reason for me to still be talking.
“Yes.”
“I mean it.”
“I gathered.”
“I’m not moving in or anything.”
“I have not asked you to.”
“And I’m sleeping in a guest room.”
That finally earns me the slightest movement of one eyebrow. “That is fine.”
The next half hour passes in the kind of uncomfortable administrative haze that makes everything feel simultaneously more serious and less real.
The officers take photographs, ask me to walk through the cottage again and identify anything that seems disturbed, write things down, ask about contractors, previous visitors, whether anyone else has keys, whether I have enemies, which feels like an offensively dramatic question until I realize I genuinely have no idea how to answer it anymore.
A month ago, I would have laughed.
Now I glance at Camille.
He is standing slightly apart from the officers, not quite watching me, not quite not watching me, and I have the sudden irrational thought that I cannot tell, even now, whether his being here is the problem or the solution.
“I don’t think so,” I tell the officer.
Camille says nothing.
That somehow manages to feel like an answer.
By the time they finally leave, afternoon light has begun slanting through the western windows, turning dust suspended in the sitting room into drifting flecks of gold.
The cottage looks deceptively normal again once the uniforms disappear through the door, which might be the worst part of all of it.
There should be some obvious scar left behind, something dramatic enough to match the violation in my chest, but there isn’t.
There is only the light, and the dust, and Camille standing in my sitting room, and the fact that I called him before I called anyone else, and the fact that I am still not sure what that means, and the fact that I’m not sure I want to find out.
Camille remains where he is while I wander into the hall, and although he says nothing, I can feel him watching me with the patient, unnerving focus he usually reserves for his snakes.
“I need clothes,” I say.
“Then pack clothes.”
I roll my eyes. “Wow. Excellent insight, Camille. Thank you so much.”
“You seem distressed. I thought simple instructions might be useful.”
“I’m not distressed.”
“Hm.”
I tighten my jaw. “I’m not.”
There’s something profoundly irritating about being placated by someone who doesn’t even sound like he’s trying to placate me.
I head upstairs before I say something stupid.
My bedroom feels wrong the moment I enter.
Not because anything obvious has happened in here.
The bed remains unmade, one corner of the sheet twisted from where I kicked it loose during the night.
A pair of shorts is still hanging from the back of the chair.
My charger is still plugged into the wall.
The glass on my nightstand contains the same inch of stale water I left behind.
Still, I stand in the doorway longer than necessary.
Someone might have been in here.
The thought slides over my skin like cold oil.
Maybe they opened my drawers, or stood beside my bed. Maybe they looked at my clothes, or at my medication bag, or even my vibrator.
Maybe none of that happened; I’ll never know, and that might be worse than knowing.
“Ryan?” Camille’s voice travels up the stairs.
“I’m packing.”
“I did not ask what you were doing.”
“Then why are you yelling my name?”
A pause.
“To make certain you are still here.”
My chest does something unpleasantly soft. “I haven’t been kidnapped in the last thirty seconds.”
“Maybe I should come up.”
“Please do not.”
I grab my overnight bag from the wardrobe and begin throwing things into it. As I’m working, I think of Alberte.
I am standing in his bedroom—or what became mine—while strangers apparently search through the remains of whatever life he left behind.
What the fuck happened here?
What did he do that was so wrong that over twenty years later, people grimace at his name?
Was it somehow Henri? Was he here searching for something important to him? If they really were lovers, did he hope to find old photographs of them together, or maybe a ring? If that’s the case, he could’ve just asked me.
Although, if whatever happened was because they were gay, maybe he was worried I’d be homophobic too? Or maybe seeing me would’ve hurt? It’s not like my father was Henri and Alberte’s, after all.
When I come downstairs, Camille is standing beside the desk with his arms folded. He isn’t touching anything.
His gaze drops to the bag in my hand, then lifts to my face. The late afternoon sun catches his face, making his eyes look like what I’d imagine angels’ eyes would. Their beauty takes my breath away.
“Ready?” he asks, a brow raised in question.
“No,” I answer bluntly.
One corner of his mouth lifts, a faint, dry crease in his otherwise impassive expression. “I meant physically.”
“Oh. Yeah.”
I step toward the kitchen, then stop. My groceries.
“Fuck. I hope the food is fine. They’ve been sitting out there in the sun for hours.”
Camille follows my gaze toward the bags outside on the porch. “They are most likely fine. We will bring them with us.” He walks outside, gathers both canvas bags before I can protest, and returns with them hanging from one hand as though they weigh nothing.
“I can carry my own groceries.”
“I know.”
“Then give them to me.”
“No.”
I stare at his back as he turns and begins the walk over to his estate, the set of his shoulders unyielding beneath his shirt.
“What happened to respecting my independence?”
“You are carrying your overnight bag.” His voice drifts back, cool and factual.
“That’s not the point.”
“It is precisely the point. You are capable of carrying both, but I am choosing to carry these so that you do not have to.”
“You’re impossible,” I say, following behind him.
He pauses at the edge of the garden and glances over his shoulder. “And yet, you called me.”
There it is. The truth lay bare between us.
The truth I really don’t want to talk about.
“Don’t,” I say quietly. “Please.”
His expression shifts into something approximating innocence—a failed experiment that leaves his features too still, his eyes too knowing. “I said nothing.”
“You said plenty.”
We pass through the gap in the boundary wall, the stones casting long shadows over the weeds.
The memory of him bending me roughly over it, my wrists locked together at the small of my back by an unmoving hand, his voice in my ear telling me to be quiet as his cock pushes past my defenses, forcing me open—
“Shit,” I yelp as I trip over an overgrown root.
Camille looks back at me. “Are you alright?”
“Mhm. Perfect.”
By the time we reach his house, my adrenaline has burned itself down into exhaustion. The place feels weird knowing I’m going to actually stay the night.
I’ve been here enough times now that I know which floorboard near the library doors gives a tiny complaint beneath Camille’s weight, which hallway stays noticeably cooler than the rest of the house, which bathroom downstairs has a faucet that squeaks, but I’ve always arrived knowing I would leave.
Generally after a phenomenal orgasm. Or two.
Or three…
Anyways, it feels obscenely intimate to be walking in with an overnight bag.
I continue to follow Camille as he leads us to the kitchen and places the groceries onto the counter. I hover near the island as he begins unloading my things.
“You are sure you’re alright?” he asks, graciously not making eye contact while he sorts out what needs to be refrigerated.
“Yeah, it was just, um… a shock,” I muster, fiddling with the straps of my bag.
“I am sorry it occurred.”
“It’s fine. I’m fine.”
He hums, then asks lightly, “Have you eaten? I will make us something.”
I watch him silently for a few minutes as he opens cupboards, sets a large pot on the stove, and prepares ingredients.
It’s not until he’s almost done that the question that has been sitting heavily in my chest finally claws its way out. “Who is Henri Voclain?”
Camille stops, his fingers tightening around the spoon in his hand. “You already know who he is.”
“I know what you’ve told me.”
“And what did I tell you?”
“That he was a doctor. That Alberte met him when he was twenty-one and started working for him. That they moved down here and Henri had some giant research estate.”
“Yes. Le Mas Voclain.”
“And today, someone broke into the cottage, obviously was searching for something specific instead of stealing expensive shit, and when the police asked you about it, you immediately said Henri’s name.”
Camille’s face becomes unreadable.
“So I’m asking again. Who the fuck is Henri Voclain?”
He looks toward the kitchen doorway. For a second I think he’s going to tell me we can discuss it later. If he does, I may stab him.
“Do you have a more specific question?” he asks carefully, turning back to his stew.
I narrow my eyes. “I spoke with a guy in the village this morning.”
“Name?”
“I didn’t get it.”
“Description?”
I huff. “Are you seriously doing suspect identification right now?”
“No.”
“Yes, you are.”
“Describe him.”
I sigh. “Old. White hair. Skinny. Cane. Very French.”
Camille throws me a flat look over his shoulder. “That describes half the men in this region.”
“He had a tan?” I offer.
“Laisse tomber,” he scoffs. Just forget it. “What did he say?”
“He said he knew Alberte when he was younger. Then I asked if he knew Henri too, and he didn’t seem to like that question. He said there were rumors about my grandfather and Henri.”
Camille says nothing, instead getting dishes to serve his stew on.
“You know, don’t you? Is that what you meant when you said that there are many reasons to follow someone?”
“Yes.”
The single word hits me like a blow. I stare at him, my heart pounding. “Why didn’t you tell me?”