Chapter 31 Address what happened
“Come to my office.”
Holland’s voice was unmistakable, smooth, low, and cutting with a command that allowed no refusal. It traveled through the receiver with deliberate calm, leaving no room for explanation or delay.
Camille’s throat constricted. “Yes, Chief,” she whispered, her voice small, brittle, shaped by tension she couldn’t quite hide.
The line went dead.
Camille stared at the phone for a beat longer than necessary, the silence on the other end pressing in. Her hand trembled as she lowered the receiver, the click of it settling back into place sounding far louder than it should have been in the quiet room. She spread her palms against the desk, fingers splayed, grounding herself against the solid surface as if it could keep her upright. Her breath came uneven, catching, refusing to settle.
Moving felt difficult, like pushing through resistance that clung to her limbs. But she forced herself upright. She smoothed her jacket, tugging it into place with hands that still shook, and lifted her chin higher than instinct allowed. Whatever waited for her down the hall, she would meet it standing.
The floor stretched before her in tense quiet, rows of empty desks glowing faintly under screensavers and forgotten lamps. The department felt hollow at this hour, stripped of its usual noise, every sound magnified in the stillness. Her steps carried too clearly across the polished floor, measured but unsteady, each one pulling her closer to the glass-walled office at the far end.
She slowed as she reached it, her pulse climbing, crowding her throat. The light inside spilled through the glass, revealing little more than movement and shadow. She stopped at the door, breath shallow now, and lifted her hand. Her knuckles rapped lightly against the glass, the sound thin and exposed.
“Enter.”
The word cut through the air, deliberate and commanding.
Camille’s hand hovered over the door, then she eased it open and stepped inside. The air shifted immediately, heavy, almost tangible, as though it bent around Holland’s presence.
Her chest tightened when the glass walls darkened with a low hum, the light draining until the outside world was nothing but a blurred shadow. No watchers. No escape. The room wrapped around her like a cage she couldn’t pry open.
“Close the door.” Holland’s voice carried across the room, clipped, unyielding.
Camille’s fingers lingered a fraction too long on the handle, then the click resonated, final and absolute. She was enclosed, fully exposed, with the woman whose mere presence set every pulse in her body racing.
Holland stood behind her desk, poised and precise. Her back was straight, her frame taut, each movement measured, as if every inch of her existed to command and control. Camille could feel it pressing down, a quiet gravity that left her breath shallow.
She tried to square her shoulders, lift her chin, but the prickling of panic crawled beneath her skin, warning her with every nerve to flee. The room offered no mercy. No choice but to face it.
“We need to address what happened.”
Holland’s voice carried no hesitation, each word clean and unbending. She braced both hands on the desk and leaned Holland’s voice carried no hesitation, each word precise, unyielding. She braced both hands on the desk and leaned forward, shrinking the distance with a presence that pressed into Camille’s chest like gravity. Every line of her body radiated control, her gaze unwavering, the kind that made argument impossible.
“What you did was wrong. Unacceptable. And it will not happen again. Am I clear?”
"Yes, Chief." Camille’s throat tightened. Her words stumbled out before she could stop them. “What… what happened was my fault. I won’t repeat it.”
The syllables fell like dust, empty and fragile. Standing this close, under the piercing blue of Holland’s eyes, all rational thought scattered. Her pulse rattled, her fingers itched, a heat crawling through her that whispered of risk. Every instinct tempted her forward, closer, but she forced her body back.
The urge scorched her, a flame she couldn’t quite snuff. She clenched her jaw and shoved it down, a forbidden pull pressing at her ribs. A smile tugged at her lips, fleeting but insolent. Danger simmered in the air, sharp enough to thrill.
“Ms. Lustrelle! Are you even listening?!”
Her name snapped through the air. Camille flinched, pulled back into the present by the sting. Heat surged across her cheeks. She forced a nod, too quick, too eager, and lifted her eyes to Holland’s face—only to falter beneath the unyielding blue of her gaze. It held her, unblinking, merciless. She dropped her eyes instead, landing on the lunch container still sitting on the desk, untouched since she had set it there.
The sight pricked at her, a quiet accusation. Her mouth moved before thought could intervene. “Why didn’t you eat?”
Holland’s jaw stiffened. She froze, the faintest slip in her control. Her reply came clipped, edged with frost. “That’s none of your concern.”
Camille’s laugh came soft, low, and hard in the quiet office. Without pausing, she stepped forward, deliberate, heels pressing into the carpet. Her fingers wrapped around the lunch container. She lifted it, holding it between them like a shield, her green eyes sharp with disbelief.
“So you starved yourself?” Her voice carried evenly, though the pulse in her neck throbbed. “For what reason?”
Holland’s gaze lifted, cold and unyielding, but a flicker passed through it, a faultline she hadn’t meant to reveal. Her chin rose, shoulders rigid, tone brittle enough to leave a mark. “I don’t owe you an explanation.”
Camille’s laugh was low, humorless, carrying danger. She shook her head and stepped closer, shrinking the space between them, her presence a silent challenge. “What? You know, you’re acting like a child.”
Holland froze, caught off guard, her eyes narrowing, ice flickering through the storm. “Watch your words,” she warned, voice dropping, heavier, sharper with threat.
Camille didn’t move back. Couldn’t. The fire inside her had already ignited, spreading through every nerve. Her steps claimed the distance between them, shoulders squared, her expression soft yet unflinching. “You didn’t eat because of me, did you? Because of that kiss. That’s all this is. You’re throwing up walls because you’re afraid of what it meant.”
Holland’s breath hitched, fleeting but enough for Camille to notice, a crack in the flawless armor.
“Ms. Lustrelle…” Holland’s voice trembled ever so slightly, betraying the strain she fought to mask.
Camille leaned in, her voice dropping to a husky, intimate whisper, as though the world beyond the office walls had ceased to exist. “What? Did you like it?” Her eyes pinned Holland’s, daring denial. “Is that why you’re keeping me at arm’s length? Did I break through that perfect glass wall you’ve spent your whole life building?”
Holland stepped back, then another, the desk pressing against the backs of her thighs. Her hands twitched along the polished edge, gripping it like the last anchor in a storm.
Camille followed, relentless. Each step claimed the space between them, pulling the air taut, thick with heat and anticipation. She didn’t reach for Holland, not yet, but her presence pressed in, enough to make the woman stagger against her own composure.
“What is it about me that sets you off, huh?” Camille’s words cut through the tension, her green eyes burning with something fierce, raw, and dangerously close to hunger. “Why do you always look so angry when I’m around? Do I remind you of yourself? No.” She shook her head slowly, a half-smirk tugging at her lips. “No, you’d never admit that. You’re too stuck up, too proud, to ever let yourself be someone like me.”
Holland’s throat moved as she swallowed, jaw taut, chest rising unevenly. She wanted to snap back, to reassert the control Camille had been unravelling, strand by strand. But the words lodged in her, stubborn and heavy.
“Stop.” The command came rougher now, edges trembling, voice brittle yet forced into steel. “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll stop.”
Her hands betrayed her. Knuckles whitened against the polished desk, the wood the only anchor keeping her upright as Camille pressed closer, hotter, dangerous, and impossibly near.
Camille chuckled, low and rough, a sound that rattled the air between them, too sure, too alive for the storm thrashing inside her. “No one talks to me the way you do,” she said, voice dropping, edged with tension. Her eyes pinned Holland’s, daring her to look away. “No one makes me feel like this. And God, you drive me insane. With you it’s like standing at the edge of a cliff, the ground crumbling beneath my feet. I know I’ll fall. I know it. But some part of me still hopes I won’t.”
Her palms came down hard on the desk, framing Holland’s hips. The sound thudded into the silence, commanding, immovable. Holland jolted back, hands clutching the wood tighter. Camille leaned in, arms bracketing her, green eyes ablaze, her breath warm and sharp between them. “Why are you like this, Holland Larson?” Her voice deepened, rougher, insistent. “Why do you always have to act untouchable? So high, so impossible, like no one could ever reach you?”
Holland’s lips parted, a single word slipping free, low, tight. “Careful, Ms. Lustrelle.” The warning should have cut through the air, precise and cold, but it trembled instead, frayed at the edges, a fissure beneath the surface of control.
Camille’s chest heaved once, her pulse a drum she couldn’t steady. The sound of her own breathing filled her ears, loud in the silence between them, each inhale scraping its way in as if her body had forgotten how to do it naturally. Careful. The word surfaced uninvited, brittle and thin, offering itself like a last warning. It should have stopped her. It should have made her pull back, give space, restore the distance that had defined every moment before this one. Instead, it sparked something sharper, hotter. It poured fuel onto a fire that had already been set ablaze, spreading fast, uncontrollable, demanding attention.
Her fingers twitched before she even realized she’d moved. The impulse came first, instinctive and unfiltered, her body deciding before her mind could intervene. She lifted her hand, slow and deliberate, the motion measured, her fingertips brushing the crisp edge of Holland’s lapel as if testing a boundary she already knew she was crossing. The fabric was cool beneath her fingertips, immaculate and pressed, a barrier meant to remind her of lines that should not be crossed. But beneath that, Holland burned. The heat was unmistakable, alive, a silent answer to everything neither of them had said. Camille felt it even through the barrier of cloth, the warmth radiating off her skin, seeping into Camille’s hand and traveling up her arm like a current she could no longer deny.
“I can’t be careful with you, chief,” Camille whispered. The words left her softly, but there was no taking them back. They slipped free like something she had been holding behind her teeth for far too long, bare and exposed once spoken. Her voice carried no armor now, no practiced control. “Not… not with you.”