Camille, Claimed (Blue-eyed Monsters Book 3)

by Ginger Talbot

  His face flushes red. “Get the fuck away from me, Camille!”

  A sharp sting lances my heart. He’s sending me away. He’s finally doing it. Why does it hurt that he wants me to leave? I’ve wanted to escape him from the minute I first saw him at the coffee shop, haven’t I?

  I have to go. I can’t live like this.

  “I thought you’d never ask!” I force the words from my lips, then I turn and run past him down the alley, to the street in front of the club. We’re in a warehouse district. The street’s nearly empty. There are two limos parked in front of the club, and a big SUV with darkened windows that’s driving too fast—toward me. Alarm bells ring in my head.

  The car screeches to a halt and men in dark clothing swarm from it, barreling toward me. Before I can even scream, shots ring out and three of them crumple to the ground.

  I whirl around to see Bastien holding a pistol. He shoots a fourth man; there are two left. Before I can say anything, there’s an odd noise, and a dart appears in Bastien’s shoulder as if by magic. He staggers and falls to his knees. The two remaining attackers run past me, ignoring me now. Bastien is their prize. I was just bait.

  Two men grab him by the arms and haul them to the waiting car as I stand there, helpless.

  They’re going to kill him.

  I could just let them take him. My nightmare would be over. Bastien would never threaten me or anyone I love, ever again. Instead, my body goes on automatic and I move without thinking. I pick up the pistol that Bastien dropped. I run over to one of the limos idling in front of the club, and rap on the window. The driver rolls down the window, scowling. “What?”

  As if in a dream, I stick the pistol in his face. What have I become? “Get out!” That’s my voice barking at him; that’s my hand holding the pistol steady as he tumbles out of the car, his face pale with fear.

  I slide behind the wheel, put my seat belt on, and take off, panicking—the dark SUV is disappearing around a corner. I blast through a red light to catch up to them and rear-end the SUV so hard it spins out and hits a wall.

  The airbag explodes in my face with a loud bang, and there’s powdery, weird-smelling dust and the smell of smoke and the sound of a blaring horn. I scrabble to release my seat belt, and bend over painfully to pick up the gun off the floor. My ears ring, and I can feel the imprint of the seat belt diagonally across my body.

  Then I climb out of the car, blinking. My eyes tear with the shock, and my legs wobble.

  The man who was driving the getaway car was thrown halfway through the windshield, and he hangs there, vacant eyes gaping at nothing, dripping gore onto the hood. My stomach lurches. I did that. I killed a man. Again.

  We’re near a major thoroughfare, with cars streaming by. Should I run for help? My head is spinning from the crash.

  Bastien and another man are stumbling from the rear of the SUV as I walk up to it. The would-be kidnapper has blood streaming down his forehead, and he’s fumbling for the gun holstered at his waist, so I shoot him in the chest. He’s wearing a bullet-proof vest, so he just staggers back and curses then feels around for his gun again. This time, I shoot him in the head. Instantly, he goes boneless and crumples to the ground in an awkward heap.

  My heart stutters in my chest.

  I just murdered two more men.

  Bastien’s stumbling drunkenly, the effects of the tranquilizer dart making him woozy. I grab him by the arm and steer him toward the busy street, and it feels like forever, me clutching the gun in one hand and holding him upright. He’s heavy and he keeps almost falling on me.

  Finally we reach the curb. My mind races. What to do? I don’t have my purse or a phone. If we went to a hospital, how would I explain all this?

  Bastien looks down at me, eyes bleary. “Why didn’t you let them kill me?”

  “Why do you think?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know. Everything I did to you…” he mumbles under his breath. “Now’s your chance. Kill me now, so I’ll stop hurting you. Save yourself, Camille.”

  “I don’t want you dead!” I scream in frustration. “I’ve never wanted you dead! I want you to stop hurting me, damn it! I want to go back to the way it was. I want you to love me again!”

  He raises his head and his eyes are dull with sorrow. “Never. I’m poison, Camille. This only ends one way.” His voice slurs, his head droops down again.

  “Well then, fuck you, Bastien. Just fuck right off!” I shout at him. “I’m not going to live like this. And you can tell whoever is after you to leave me out of it, or I’m going to the cops.”

  “Bastien!” A shout rings out in the night air. It’s Simon, leaning out of the passenger side window of a car that’s racing toward us. Bastien will be safe now. I shove the gun into Bastien’s hands and I turn and run, feet flying. My heart is tearing itself in two. I’m leaving him.

  I’m going to take the money he gave me, the money I stashed in a safe deposit box, and leave Pennsylvania. I’m going to hide out. Maybe I’ll even leave the country.

  I’ll never see him again.

  I’ll never love anybody again.

  A car pulls up next to me. There are two couples inside, and they look at me with alarm. “Lady? Are you all right?”

  “Bad date,” I sob as one of them holds a door open for me. “Really, really, really bad date.”

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Bastien

  I’m in my office, fists clenched so tightly my hands are going numb. I force my hands open and flex my fingers, and I try to relax. My eyes are glued to the screen in front of me.

  Troy is sitting at his dinner table, surrounded by guards, in his little walled-up fortress of a home. Thinking he’s safe, breathing his last breaths. Simon stands near me, carefully silent, waiting for my orders. I’m not in a mood for chit-chat these days.

  I have no idea where Camille is, and it’s making me sick. I’m an idiot. I drove her away.

  I’d like to blame the tranquilizer for clouding my brain, but I can’t. It was all me. Me and my stubborn pride, refusing to admit the truth to her. The bitter teenager she hurt is still very much a part of me, wounded and afraid. I exposed my tender insides to her once before, and she gutted me. She nearly destroyed me. I can’t let her back in…but what am I without her? I’m nothing. I’m hollow. Camille is my heart; she’s what makes me human. I want to be human. I want to feel something besides hate.

  I do love her. I need her. I’ve punished her enough, probably far too much, and after everything I did to her, she still forgave me. She risked her life to save my worthless ass and asked me to love her again, and I threw it in her face.

  She’s completely off the grid, and I can’t find her anywhere. I could do something to draw her out—kidnap Landon or Pandora or her mother and make sure it makes the news—but I promised her I wouldn’t, and I won’t break my word to her. And it would make her hate me forever.

  But she already hates me forever.

  Fuck, fuck, fuck. I am so stupid. She could have been mine. I could have married her. I could have taken her away with me, and bought her a gallery to show her art in, and tied her down and whipped her tight little ass with my belt and then fucked her until she came, night after night. And I ruined it, and the anguish in her eyes when I said the word “never” will haunt me until I die.

  I’ve never in my life felt guilt, and now I’m choking on it. It tastes bitter and poisonous, but it won’t kill me—oh no, that would be much too easy.

  I can’t have her again, and the realization makes me want to truly, genuinely weep. I want to howl my misery to the heavens, release the thick, bitter poison that’s eating away at me. I would cry if I could, but the tears are locked away deep inside me.

  Maybe if she were here I could cry.

  If she were here I wouldn’t need to cry.

  I can’t make up for all the harm I’ve caused. The only thing I can do now is protect her, keep her alive, because she has to stay alive. Camille can’t die. With
out Camille, there is no me.

  Why did it take me so long to realize that?

  The challenge is only days away, but I can’t risk Troy going after her again, so I’m doing what I must to keep her safe.

  Troy was diving into his pasta a moment ago, but now he realizes something is wrong. His hand is shaking as he drops his fork. His face turns red as he stumbles to his feet then falls to the ground, curling up in a ball of agony. His guards are panicking, running around like the proverbial chickens with their heads cut off.

  It takes Troy about ten minutes to die. His body is racked with agonizing tremors. His face purples, his tongue swells up in his mouth. The guards fetch oxygen, they run an IV. It’s useless. One of the guards performs an emergency tracheotomy, but it doesn’t work. Troy’s thrashing arms and legs collapse and his bloodshot eyes bulge from his swollen, grape-colored head.

  I press a button on my keyboard, and a message goes out to all the guards’ cell phones. “Your fight is with me. Go after Camille again, and every last one of you will die the same way. I can find you anywhere.” It’s also going out to the cell phone of every man in the Franklin family.

  I lean back in my seat and watch the guards screaming and swearing. Then I glance at Simon. “Go. Keep looking for her,” I say. He nods, then hurries from the room.

  As expected, I hear from Augustus very early the next morning.

  “Mr. Franklin would be pleased to have you join him at lunch today,” the text message says. “His helicopter will be arriving shortly.” It’s not an invitation.

  I wake up Simon and make him promise that if anything happens to me, he’ll find Camille and guard her the way he would me, and he will never insult her again. He promises instantly.

  “Can’t I go with you?” he asks. I just shake my head. He knows I’m in a deadly family feud, but he doesn’t know the particulars. It wouldn’t be safe for him to know. I have left instructions for him in case I don’t return, instructions I am confident he will carry out.

  Ever since I found out about the challenge, I’ve been making preparations—for whether I win or lose. Will it be enough? I won’t know the answer to that until the very end.

  The helicopter lands on my landing pad a couple of hours later. I never gave Augustus my address, but I’m not surprised he knows where I’m staying.

  I arrive at the estate at eleven a.m. As we’re flying overhead, my eye is drawn to the densely wooded area near the cabin. That’s where my fate will be decided in a few short days.

  When I enter the sprawling home, escorted by two guards, another guard stops me and runs a metal-detecting wand up and down my body. I understand their caution, but I didn’t bother packing weapons; what would be the point? Once he’s satisfied, I’m led to a guest room, and again, Maria comes in and kneels at my feet, offering to service me in any way I please. There’s a haunted look in her eyes. Somehow her expression reminds me of Camille, and I don’t feel as excited by her fear and misery as the first time I saw her. Again, I turn her down.

  She leaves, eyes downcast. Her fate could change significantly in the next few days, depending on the outcome of the challenge. I’m surprised I’m even thinking about what happens to her. It’s not like me.

  I ponder this as I pace the floor. Am I concerned about her? Would I have feelings if she died? I don’t think so. Camille has changed me, she’s worn the points off my sharpest spikes, but she hasn’t made me completely human. I don’t think anyone could do that. The necessary parts are simply missing.

  I’m left to cool my heels for almost two hours. If this is Augustus’ attempt to psych me out, it’s a failure. It amuses me considerably.

  Finally, Maria comes to fetch me. Solomon and Paxton are at the dining room table, sipping mint juleps. The pastels and bright colors are gone. They’re dressed formally now, wearing navy blazers and pale blue Oxfords, their silk ties Windsor-knotted.

  Maria vanishes after I sit down. Several bulky manservants clad in butler’s livery are hovering discreetly in the background. From the way they carry themselves, they’re all either military or they’ve had extensive tactical training.

  Solomon looks amused. “Somebody’s been a bad boy,” he mocks as one of the men silently pours me a mint julep.

  “Isn’t that the definition of being a Franklin?” I smile at him. He inclines his head in agreement and toasts me with his drink.

  Paxton glowers at me, burning me with hatred. “You’re not one of us, Bastien—you never will be. Robert shouldn’t have brought you here.” Then a nasty smile curls his lips. “That’s all right, though. You won’t be fouling up the works for much longer. I can’t wait to meet you in the woods.”

  “Sounds kinky. Thanks, but if I were into men, I’d want one with some actual balls.” I pour myself some coffee. It’s a little early in the morning to start drinking.

  “Keep talking, interloper. I’ll cut that tongue out and feed it to you soon enough.” Paxton’s vibrating with restrained fury. He’s about my size, but he’s way too eager and his emotions are written all over his face. I’m looking forward to meeting him in the woods too. I hope I get to him first.

  Augustus strolls in, wearing his usual southern gentleman attire of suit and Oxford shirt. He politely inquires after my health. Then we have to do the whole damn formal brunch thing, and it drags out for an hour. The pheasant is flavorful and tender, the asparagus in hollandaise exquisitely prepared, but I’d rather get down to business.

  Finally, Augustus focuses his attention on me. “Your attendance is requested in our meeting room,” he says. Paxton flashes a gloating look my way. I can all but hear him crooning in his head. “Oooh, you’re in trouble…”

  We all wind our way through the house, with the butlers trailing behind us.

  We finally reach a large, windowless room with a long oak table in the center. Oil portraits of the previous Franklins glare pitilessly from the far wall, the one that faces the door I’m entering. Isaiah Franklin’s picture is the largest, and it’s in the center. His eyes simmer with rage; I doubt that man ever cracked a smile in his miserable life.

  There are seventeen men there by my quick count, lined up with their backs to the wall, facing me. They’re all formally dressed, like Solomon and Paxton, wearing dark jackets and ties. I can see varying degrees of resemblance—it’s disconcerting to see so many variations of my stolen face looking back at me. They range in age from early twenties to their seventies. All are dark-haired and blue-eyed like me. I recognize some of them, including Benedict and Senator Franklin and Judge Franklin.

  Their gazes are hard and unfriendly. Solomon and Paxton go sit down next to their father, with the other men, and I sit alone on a chair on the opposite side as I am directed.

  Augustus’ seat is in the center, underneath the portrait of Isaiah. It is larger and more ornate than the other men’s seats. He speaks in a booming voice that rolls from his chest and rings from the rafters. “I now convene the emergency meeting of the Franklin Family Council.”

  This is in the charter, which I have memorized down to the last comma.

  He recites a passage about the glorious family history, how the Franklins are men touched by God, apart from and above other men, who make their own destiny, and other florid crap that’s been repeated in this room ad nauseum for more than two hundred years.

  When he’s done, he requests the roll call, and every man announces his name and the name of his father, grandfather, great great grandfather—tracing their lineage back to Isaiah. When they’ve finished, I state my name, my father’s name, my grandfather’s name, and I also trace my lineage back, from the family tree that was a part of the charter. I see Paxton’s eyes flicker with annoyance; if I’d failed to recite my lineage properly, they would have executed me on the spot. No non-Franklin can know of the family’s secrets and live.

  With the formalities finally over, Augustus’ eyes drill into me like laser beams. “Bastien Durand, I understand that you hacked into Troy�
�s GPS module and killed him yesterday evening. This is a violation of my rules as Patriarch.” His voice has gone velvety soft—the same tone he used when he dumped the eggs on the floor and told the women to clean it up or he’d cut off their fingers.

  The rules about usage of the GPS modules are not in the charter, of course, but this falls under Augustus’ powers as Patriarch. The Patriarch addresses more modern issues.

  I shake my head. “No, sir, I don’t have that capability. I turned one of his chefs against him, and he poisoned him.”

  “Bullshit!” bellows Damion Franklin, Troy’s father, his face flushing red. Then he glances at Augustus. “Apologies, Patriarch. Permission to speak, sir?”

  “Granted.”

  Damion glowers at me. “This is horseshit. All my son’s employees were completely loyal. Augustus, I told you not to let this clown in, and allowing him to participate in the challenge? It’s a potential disaster for every last one of us, for our entire way of life. We don’t know enough about him. We—”

  “The charter gives me no choice,” Augustus says coldly. “It is very clear on that matter. Are we weaklings? Are we afraid of him? He’ll be proving his worth, or lack of it, in two days’ time. Don’t question my decisions again, Damion, unless you want to enter the challenge and face me in the woods. Do you?”

  Damion swallows hard. He’s broad and muscular; there’s not a single man here who isn’t fighting fit. But he must have a sense of what he’d be up against, because he shakes his head.

  “No, sir. I’m sorry. I do not question your authority.” His eyes bore into me, beaming hatred.

  Augustus returns his attention to me. He folds his hands in front of him on the table. “Tell me how you compromised the chef.”

  “I found his weakness. I know that Troy was very careful about who he allowed to work for him, and he doesn’t hire people who have any living family members,” I say. “But as it so happens, the chef lied. He has a secret girlfriend and a daughter. I promised to spare their lives if he did what I told him to. He wasn’t even on the premises the day Troy died; he just prepared the meal for Troy to be served that night. I provided him and his family with fake identification so they could flee the country.”