SOLD TO AUGUST CHILDE

008

CAMILLA



I stayed on the floor long after August left.

The carpet pressed against my cheek, soft but foreign, smelling faintly of fabric cleaner and dust. I couldn’t turn over. I couldn’t even think about lying on my back.

The sting was too sharp, too fresh. My body ached in ways I hadn’t expected—tiny pins of pain running under my skin, along muscles I barely remembered using.

So I stayed ass up, cheek pressed to the soft carpet, arms folded under my head like a makeshift pillow, pretending it offered comfort. My chest rose and fell unevenly. Every inhale felt like it carried a weight I couldn’t drop.

My mind spun in circles. Thoughts tangled, refusing order.

Was this really better than Rico’s?

At the club, at least I knew the rules. Dance. Smile. Collect tips. Go home sore but free for a few hours. It was predictable. Calculable. A rhythm I could survive.

Here?

I didn’t know the rules. I didn’t know him.

One minute he was whipping me until I cried, his eyes unreadable, every strike hitting with precise cruelty. The next, he was kissing my tears, as if they had broken something inside him, as if he cared more than any human should.

Shit.

I was f****d.

The tears came again, quiet at first, like a gentle leak, then harder, pooling into my hair and soaking the sleeve of my shirt. I buried my face in my arms so no one would hear, so no one could see me crumble like this.

I hated myself for crying. For being weak. For letting him—letting this—reach me.

The door opened softly.

Ama rushed in, her voice tight with concern. “Oh, Camilla.”

She dropped to her knees beside me, hands trembling slightly. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.” She repeated it again and again, each apology carrying a weight I couldn’t lift.

While she spoke, she gently lifted the hem of my dress and smoothed cool cream across my skin. Her touch was careful, deliberate, almost motherly, and it made my body register relief it hadn’t known it wanted.

The numbing started almost immediately, the fire under my skin dulling to a low throb, a distant echo instead of the screaming burn it had been. I let out a quiet, shaky breath, my body surrendering to the brief mercy.

After a few minutes, she helped me sit up. Then stand. My legs wobbled like a newborn child's, as if I were learning to walk all over again.

I looked at her, voice small. “Thank you.”

She nodded, eyes full of guilt. “He’s… he’s not always like this.”

I let out a bitter laugh that hurt more than my body. “I don’t even know what he’s like, Ama. I don’t know the man apart from what I see in the news.”

She bit her lip, hesitant. “Just… please don’t tell anyone what happened.”

I scoffed. “As if.”

She nodded quickly, almost desperate. “I’m sorry. Again.” She set two pills and a glass of water on the nightstand. “For the pain.”

“Thanks,” I whispered. My throat felt raw, not just from crying but from months of holding myself small, quiet, and contained.

“If you need anything—”

“I just want to be alone,” I cut in.

“I understand,” she said, giving me one last worried look before slipping out. The door clicked shut behind her, leaving the room quiet except for the faint hum of the air conditioning.

I stared at the bed.

So big. So inviting. The sheets looked smooth, almost taunting in their neatness. My body screamed for it, for the promise of softness and relief it offered. But what if he came back and found me there? What if that set him off again?

I couldn’t risk it.

So I sank back to the floor. Curled up on my side. The carpet pressed against me like a thin barrier between reality and something softer, safer. And I cried until my eyes burned and my throat ached. Each sob was a small surrender to the fear and confusion that had been building for days, months—years, if I were honest.

I wanted Gianna so badly it hurt. I wanted Monty. I wanted anyone who knew me before all this—someone to pull me out of this beautiful nightmare.

The memories pressed in, both sweet and painful. Nights at the club with friends, careless laughter, the smell of rain on asphalt after a late shift, Monty’s teasing grin, Gianna’s warm, constant presence.

I wanted all of it back. I wanted someone to remind me that I had a life outside this, outside him.

I must have fallen asleep eventually. Exhaustion won over fear and pain.

I woke to the smell of coffee and warm butter. Something sweet underneath—pancakes, maybe.

I groaned, stretching a little. My body felt… better. Still tender, but manageable. Muscles loosened as sunlight filtered through the blinds. My limbs felt lighter, more like mine again.

Then I realized I wasn’t on the floor anymore.

I was on the bed.

Sheets tucked around me. Pillow soft beneath my head. The kind of bed I had never had in my life before—too clean, too luxurious, and yet… comforting.

I turned.

August sat on the edge, watching me with a small smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

I shot upright. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry—please. I didn’t mean to sleep on your bed.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Why are you apologizing?”

“I—”

“I found you on the floor, and I carried you up here.” He tilted his head. “How in God’s name were you comfortable sleeping on the floor?”

I looked down at my hands. Heat crept up my neck, spreading to my ears.

He gestured to the tray beside him. Silver. Loaded with food. “I brought you breakfast. Eat something, okay? I don’t want you looking sick.”

I nodded, barely trusting my voice.

He patted the space beside him. “Come on. Sit.”

I moved slowly. Carefully. Like I was approaching a wild animal, wary of his movement.

When I got close enough, he reached out, hooked an arm around my waist, and pulled me right against his side. Firm. No room for argument. My body stiffened, unsure whether to resist or yield.

His hand settled on my thigh. Rubbed slow circles.

“Does it still hurt?”

I shook my head. “No.”

“That’s good.” His voice softened. “I’m sorry, okay?”

I nodded, throat tight. Words felt impossible.

He slid the tray closer. “Come on.”

I picked up the fork and ate slowly. The pancakes were perfect—fluffy, drizzled with syrup, and with fresh berries on the side. I managed five bites before my stomach said enough.

“I’m full,” I whispered.

He nodded, stood, and set the plates on the nightstand. Then he bent and scooped me into his arms like I weighed nothing. My heart thudded—not just from fear, but from the overwhelming strangeness of being lifted, or carried.

“What… what are you doing?”'

He chuckled. Low. Warm. “Taking care of you.”

I shut up, feeling absurdly fragile in his arms.

He carried me into the bathroom, and my mouth fell open the second we stepped inside.

Marble everywhere. A huge tub with jets. A rain shower big enough for four people. Gold fixtures gleaming under soft lighting. It looked like something out of a magazine. Every surface gleamed; every reflection caught my wide-eyed stare.

He laughed quietly. “Are you that impressed?”

I snapped my mouth shut. “It’s big.”

“Yeah,” he said. “If you think so.”

I shot him a subtle glare. He just smiled wider, as if reading my thoughts before I even spoke.

He set me down beside the tub, turned on the water, and tested the temperature with his hand. Steam curled, filling the room with warmth, with a weight that pressed against my chest, making my lungs feel smaller.

Then he reached for the hem of my dress.

“What the hell are you doing?” I shouted.

He paused, brows raised. “Please don’t make me mad with all your noise. I just want to wash you up.”

My cheeks burned instantly. Embarrassment. Shame. Relief. Confusion. All at once.

He scoffed. “You should be grateful I’m bringing myself so low to do this.”

“I never begged you to—”

“Do you want to repeat that?”

I clamped my mouth shut.

“Good,” he said with a smirk. “That’s what I thought.”

His hands moved again. He tugged the dress up and over my head in one smooth motion, almost tearing it in his hurry.

My breasts spilled free.