Chapter 11: Blood in the Water
883 Words
Camille couldn’t shake the image of the woman in her hallway.
She had the same frame, the same jet-black hair, the same posture, even the same subtle head tilt she’d been told was “so you.” Watching the footage had felt like watching herself—only twisted, wrong, as if something inside her reflection had turned dark and hollow.
Damien’s voice haunted her memory. “You’re bleeding into them.” Was that what this was? A side effect of her rule-breaking flirtation? Or had she created something… else?
She didn’t sleep that night. Her body remained wired, too tightly strung, as if a string inside her would snap at any moment and unravel everything.
When morning came, she didn’t greet it with coffee or music. She stood at her kitchen window, staring at the rain. It slid down the glass like tears.
Then the knock came.
Not a buzz. A knock. Three times, precise.
She froze, then crossed the room slowly, listening. When she opened the door, her stomach flipped.
Julian.
And behind him—Archer.
Julian was dressed in charcoal gray, rain clinging to his lashes. His presence always pulled the air out of her lungs, but today there was something else in his eyes—something unreadable.
Archer leaned against the railing, hoodie soaked, dark hair a mess. He smirked, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Morning, sunshine.”
Camille didn’t know which man her nerves responded to first. Her body wanted both and neither. Her brain screamed don’t let them in. But her lips said:
“Come inside.”
They moved past her like predators who knew their prey was already cornered. The door clicked shut.
Julian didn’t speak. He walked into her living room like he’d been there before, like he had permission that hadn't been given. Archer threw himself onto the couch, wet hoodie and all.
“I was worried,” Julian said finally, voice low. “You’ve been… quiet.”
She folded her arms. “You don’t own me.”
“No,” Julian said, looking up at her. “But I know when something’s wrong.”
There was silence. The air between them crackled.
Camille licked her lips. “Did you come to check on me or interrogate me?”
Archer laughed. “Little of both. Damien’s spooked. Said you were seeing ghosts.”
Her jaw clenched. “It wasn’t a ghost.”
“What was it, then?” Julian asked softly.
She hesitated. She couldn’t tell them. Not the full truth. Not yet. But something inside her wanted to push—see what they’d do if she told them just enough.
“She looked like me,” Camille said slowly. “Same build. Same hair. Watching me.”
Julian’s eyes darkened. “You think she’s following you?”
“I know she is.”
Archer stood now, serious for once. “Camille, are you sure you’re not—?”
“Losing it?” she cut in, voice sharp. “No. I’m not. I know what I saw.”
Julian stepped forward. “Then we need to protect you.”
She almost laughed. “From her? Or from yourselves?”
He didn’t flinch. “From whatever this is becoming.”
Camille’s pulse jumped. “I gave you rules.”
Julian tilted his head. “And you’re breaking them.”
She felt heat rush to her cheeks. “I never—”
“You’re thinking about us,” he said. “Every time we’re near you. It’s in your eyes. You want danger, Camille? You already invited it in.”
Archer leaned against the wall now, arms crossed. “We can play by your rules, but don’t pretend you don’t want us to break them.”
Camille’s breath hitched. The air was too thick, the walls too close.
“You should leave,” she said.
Julian didn’t move. “Say you don’t want us, and we’ll go.”
She opened her mouth—but no sound came.
Say it.
Say it.
The silence grew until Archer broke it with a wicked grin. “That’s what I thought.”
Camille didn’t remember who moved first. Only that hands found hips, lips crashed into mouths, and her back hit the wall.
Julian’s kiss wasn’t soft. It was claiming. A storm. Her fingers tangled in his shirt, pulling him closer even as her mind screamed no.
Archer came up behind her, mouth brushing her neck. “You smell like fear,” he whispered, teeth grazing her skin. “And want.”
She gasped. Her rules dissolved.
Then the knock came again.
Hard. Urgent.
Everything froze.
Julian pulled back. Archer went tense.
Camille pushed past them, heart racing, and flung the door open.
No one was there.
Only a red envelope on the mat.
She bent to pick it up. No address. No markings.
Inside was a photo.
Her. Taken from outside her bedroom window. She was sleeping, tangled in sheets, unaware.
A message was scrawled on the back in looping cursive:
"You’re mine. Always were."
Her hands trembled.
Behind her, Julian took the photo. Read it. His jaw tightened.
“Camille,” he said. “Do you know who sent this?”
She didn’t answer. Because she did.
Only one person ever wrote like that.
Her husband.
- Writer
