22. Ryan #2
Camille knows her work, though. She has covered scientific misconduct, trafficking, and institutional corruption before, and he thinks she will understand what she is looking at without immediately publishing something reckless.
I still make him show me everything he writes, which he does. Then I rewrite half of it because his email sounds like it was dictated by a nineteenth-century diplomat preparing to declare war.
He looks personally wounded. “You removed the context.”
“No, I removed six paragraphs explaining the history of Le Mas before she’s even opened the attachments.”
“The history is relevant.”
“She can read the documents.”
“She requires framing.”
“She’ll require cocaine after reading your email.”
Ryan, one.
French academia, zero.
A final copy has been prepared for the police but has not yet been transmitted.
I’m not quite ready for that one yet.
By one thirty, we are finished.
Not finished-finished.
Nothing about this feels like it will ever be finished.
But at least the evidence no longer feels like something I have to physically guard.
The next day is relatively normal.
I sleep until noon because apparently staying awake for basically an entire day to solve a murder conspiracy does not pair well with healthy circadian rhythms, and when I eventually wander downstairs, Camille is in the kitchen making coffee.
He looks at me. I look at him.
“Do not say good morning.”
“It is afternoon,” he replies.
“Do not say good afternoon either.”
“I was going to ask whether you wanted coffee.”
“Oh.” I exhale the single syllable, and he stills. “Yes, please.”
He tilts the kettle and pours me a cup, which I cradle between my palms, enjoying the warmth.
A bit later, I settle in the library’s hush, the scent of old paper and oak pressing in. Camille bends over a desk nearby, lost in scribbled notes. When hunger drifts in, we move to the kitchen and share sandwiches without my having to command him.
After lunch, we return to the library.
I glance down to find my feet tucked beneath Camille’s thigh on the velvet sofa. I don’t remember slipping them there. The silence between us feels less fraught than before—not safe exactly, just possible.
For almost an hour, I manage not to think of Henri, or Alberte, or Nadia, or the catastrophic emotional mistake I might be making by still wanting the man beside me.
But the thought returns, relentless as the tide.
He leans forward to turn a page, his palm resting on the cushion near my ankle.
Not touching—yet so achingly close. A week ago, he’d have wrapped his hand around my calf without hesitation.
Now every inch of space demands permission.
I wanted that boundary. I still do. I’m just not sure if I want it forever.
“Camille,” I murmur. His head snaps up. “Come upstairs.”
“Are you sure?” he asks.
“Do not ruin this.”
He holds back a chuckle. “Alright, I’m coming.”
He closes his book and stands. I rise, too, and we climb the stairs to his bedroom. This time he trails me by a single step instead of three.
I resist tying him with the belt draped over his chair, and climb onto the bed to speak my desires out loud.
When he asks to touch me, I say yes. His palms settle on my hips, firm and warm. That contact sends a curious heat through my chest that has nothing to do with desire. I ignore it until I can’t.
Afterward, I roll onto my side, facing the window. Twilight softens the room to a smoky haze. My muscles feel loose, my skin gently simmering.
Behind me, Camille stays still, every nerve trained on the question of touching. The knowledge that he’s thinking of me is strangely comforting.
“You can stay,” I say quietly.
He huffs. “I’m in my bedroom.”
I close my eyes. “You know what I mean. Now hold me.”
The mattress shifts. His arm slides around my waist, and I tense, then relax at his pause.
“Don’t let go,” I whisper.
His arm tightens. “Okay.”
* * *
I wake hours later to his deep breathing against my shoulder.
His arm is still curled around me. I should slip free, but I stay, tracing his fingers as they rest over my stomach.
That hand has opened doors for me, cooked for me, held me—let me bind it because I needed proof I could. People shouldn’t be this complicated.
“Camille,” I say. No answer. I nudge him.
He startles awake. “What? What’s wrong?”
I stifle a laugh. “Nothing. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you. I just wanted to ask if there are any pastries left downstairs.”
He groans, and even in the dark, I can feel the exasperated amusement radiate off him. “I think so. You wish to eat at this hour? You are insatiable.”
“That’s what you get for putting up with me. I hope you’re happy.”
At 11:17, a soft electronic chirp drifts up from below.
I’m in the kitchen, licking pastry crumbs off my fingers. Camille freezes as he puts away dishes in the cupboards.
“What was that?” I ask.
“Stay here,” he orders, suddenly serious.
“Absolutely not.”
“Fine. Come with me.”
Camille takes his phone from the counter and opens the security application while walking toward the hall. I follow close enough to see the screen over his arm.
One exterior camera appears to be frozen.
The image shows the western side of the property, trees silvered under moonlight, a timestamp locked at 23:16:42.
Camille swipes to a different camera—it’s working. Goes to another—working. Then the driveway cam—frozen at 23:16:39.
“Wi-fi glitch?” I ask, starting to get scared.
“No.”
“Power issue?”
“No.”
His terse answers unsettle me.
“Camille. Is… is someone out there?”
“Go upstairs.”
My heart pounds. “You said—”
“That was before I saw this.” His phone’s glow is harsh on his face. A metallic scrape sounds outside. We both freeze.
Camille looks toward the dark hall leading deeper into the estate.
“We need to move.”
Somewhere beyond the walls, another security sensor gives one soft electronic chirp.
Then the entire house goes dark.
The darkness is absolute for less than a second before Camille moves.
One moment his hand is wrapped around mine, warm and tight enough that I can feel his pulse against my palm, and the next he is pulling me through the hallway with an urgency that sends my bare feet skidding slightly against the floorboards.
I barely manage to keep up, disoriented by how thoroughly the estate has vanished around us now that the lights are gone, every familiar doorway reduced to an indistinct black shape relieved only by the weak glow of Camille’s phone.
“Camille—”
“Quiet.” There is no room for argument in his voice.
He moves quickly but not blindly, navigating his own house through memory while his phone throws a narrow cone of bluish light ahead of us. I hear another sound outside—loud enough that every muscle along Camille’s back tightens beneath his shirt.
The security system is still chirping intermittently.
Not an alarm.
Failures.
One after another.
Camille glances down at his phone, swears under his breath, and changes direction so abruptly I nearly collide with him.
“The backup power should have engaged,” he hisses.
My mouth is dry. “S-should have?”
“Yes.”
“Not loving that word right now.”
“I know.”
We pass the stairs.