Chapter Fourteen: Cam

It’s been two days since I saw her in my t-shirt, and damn, she looked so tiny in it. There was something strangely intimate about seeing her in my clothes—like she belonged to me. And that scent... her scent lingered on me long after I had wrapped her bandage. She smelled like mine.

I know it’s not right, but ever since that moment, I haven't been able to stop thinking about her. She’s been haunting my dreams—wearing nothing but my shirt, teasing me, testing my control. It’s maddening.

I push myself up from the chair, my patience wearing thin. She hasn’t eaten in two days, barely acknowledges my presence, only allowing the housekeeper to take my clothes to be washed. Why is she avoiding me? I stride toward her room, and this time, I don’t knock. I barge in.

She gasps, startled, her fingers fumbling as she tries to tie the back of her dress. When she sees me, she jumps back, her eyes wide. “What are you doing here?” she yells, yanking the fabric over her chest in a poor attempt at modesty.

I step forward, ignoring her protests. “This is my house. My room.”

I know I should stop. I should turn around and walk away, but the sight of her in that dress—the same one from the party—sends my thoughts spiraling into dangerous territory. My mind whispers dark things and urges me to take what’s mine to remind her of the truth: legally, she’s still my wife. I shake my head, forcing the thoughts away. No. I won’t go there.

I move in behind her and take the strings of her dress from her trembling hands. She stiffens as I pull them tight, tying them securely. Our eyes meet in the mirror, hers uncertain, mine unreadable.

“Where are you going in that dress?” My voice comes out rougher than intended.

She hesitates. “I need to return it to Mia... and then head to the office. I have piles of work to catch up on.”

I turn her to face me, gripping her arms just enough to make her listen. “Are you insane? Did that incident knock some sense out of you?”

Lately, we’ve been talking more than we ever did last year. Maybe it’s the circumstances, maybe it’s something else, but right now, all I feel is frustration. She looks up at me, her lips parting slightly as our breaths mingle in the small space between us.

“I have to earn a living,” she says simply.

Her answer sparks something primal in me—anger, possessiveness. Does she not realize she doesn’t have to? That my money is more than enough for her to live comfortably? Why is she pushing herself like this? She was kidnapped not long ago, injured just two days ago, and now she wants to throw herself into work?

I exhale sharply. “Fine. Do whatever the hell you want.” I let go of her and turned away, my temper simmering beneath the surface. As I step out of the room, her voice stops me.

“We need to talk.”

“Later. There’s nothing left to say.”

She sighs, frustrated. “You always do this.”

That makes me pause. My fingers curl into a fist. “Do what?”

She looks at me then, really looking at me, her expression unreadable. “You shut me out when things get complicated. You walk away.”

I scoff, shaking my head. “And what do you do? Run straight into danger like a damn fool.”

Her lips press into a thin line. “At least I don’t pretend like nothing happened.”

I step closer, invading her space. “What do you want from me?”

She doesn’t answer right away. She swallows, her fingers clenching at her sides.

Finally, she whispers, “Nothing.”

It’s a lie. I can hear it in the way her voice waves.

I could call her out on it. Push her. But I don’t.

Instead, I turn away, my jaw tightening.

“You want to leave? Then leave.”

I don’t wait for her response. I storm off, heading straight to my study.

Frustration churns inside me as I grab my phone and dial Mathew’s number.

“Sir,” he answers after a single ring.

“What’s the status on the man we handed over to the police?”

There’s a pause. Then, “Sir, we did what you asked. The police released him to us, but while we were interrogating him, he passed out. He didn’t make it.”

I inhale sharply, closing my eyes. “Damn it.”

I knew Romano would be on my back for this. Losing the lead was bad enough, but now, with the guy dead, we were stuck with nothing. “Did he say anything before he died?”

“No, sir. His lips were sealed. All he kept repeating was that the package was delivered to his house without a return address.”

I run a hand down my face. Useless.

“Fine. I’ll deal with Romano.” Then, after a pause, I ask, “Did you take his fingers?”

“Yes, sir. Every single one.”

“And his tongue?”

“We did that too.”

A slow, satisfied smirk tugs at my lips. “Good.”

I should have been there to do it myself, but I was occupied with other matters. Still, they did a thorough job.

“Make sure his remains are delivered to his wives. All three of them. In one location.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Perfect. I’ll be in the office in half an hour. Let Emma know to have all the files ready.”

“Yes, sir.”

I hang up, my mind still restless. One problem was taken care of, but another—one far more frustrating—was still standing in the next room, wearing my damn shirt in my dreams, making me lose control.

And that problem wasn’t going away anytime soon.