Page 28

NINETEEN

Jamie

I sat on the edge of the bed, wrestling with the waistband of a pair of tailored black trousers I’d pulled from Killian’s closet.

Fabric was smooth and cool on my thighs, but way too long.

The man was built like a goddamn Armani ad—broad shoulders, long legs, and abs you could use as a cutting board.

I, on the other hand, was compact chaos with scars and bad habits.

The pants sagged low on my hips even with the belt on the tightest hole, slipping down in that way that made me feel like a child playing dress-up.

I rolled the cuffs up a few times, but they still puddled around my ankles.

The room smelled of him—the familiar clean linen and something sharper beneath, like smoke and cologne—and it wrapped around me as a reminder I’d decided I didn’t belong here.

I tried to stand, tripped on the hem, and crashed sideways into the full-length mirror with a yelp and a muffled, “Motherfucker!”

The door creaked open a second later.

Killian stood there, one brow arched, suit jacket gone, sleeves rolled to his elbows.

His eyes swept over me from the wrecked mirror to my half-dressed, unsteady form.

The heat of embarrassment crawled up my spine, but layered beneath it was something else—a pull I couldn’t name.

He looked at me as if he saw everything: the weakness I tried to hide, the pride barely holding me together, the war I waged against letting anyone in.

I straightened, defiant despite the burns and my aching shoulder, but the damage was done.

I felt seen. Exposed. And some sick part of me didn’t hate it.

“You planning to destroy my entire closet or just the mirror?”

“Don’t start,” I muttered, kicking the pants away and grabbing the dresser’s edge as if I could stop my legs trembling. “I’m getting out of here.”

Killian didn’t move. “No, you’re not. You’re limping, bruised, stitched, burned, and so pale you look like one bad decision away from a blackout.”

“I’m going home,” my voice sharpened .

“You’re sitting,” he said, already crossing the room as if it was his territory. “Now.”

“Why the hell do you care?” I asked, as I let myself drop back onto the edge of the bed, jaw tight.

“Someone has to, Pretty,” he said without missing a beat.

I looked away. That wasn’t fair. Not when everything inside me was stretched thin and fraying.

Not when I didn’t know what to do with how he looked at me like I was breakable and dangerous in the same breath.

Killian was close enough I could feel the heat from his body.

His hands didn’t touch me yet, but they hovered, waiting for permission he probably wasn’t going to ask for.

“Let me check the stitches.”

“I’m fine.”

“You say that one more time,” he murmured, “and I’m going to assume you’ve got a concussion on top of everything else.”

I scowled as he reached for the hem of the shirt I’d stolen from him—button-down, too big, smelled like expensive soap and something darker underneath. His fingers brushed my skin, slow and steady as he lifted the fabric. My breath hitched.

He paused. “Tell me to stop if you want me to.”

I didn’t .

He peeled the shirt back gently, revealing bruises blooming purple across my ribs, the taped stitches on my shoulder. His jaw tightened.

“What the hell did you go in there for?” he asked quietly.

I tilted my chin. “I needed to do something,” I defended.

He rolled his eyes. “You’re a fucking idiot. You just wanted to burn.”

“I wanted to make things right,” I snapped, but that made no sense.

His eyes met mine, silver storm clouds, and I couldn’t hold that stare. His hand settled on my hip, grounding me, firm enough to steady but gentle enough not to spook me.

“Breathe,” he said, his voice lower now. “Your body’s locked up.”

“I’m not—” I started, but it came out like a lie. Because his touch, even as clinical as it was, had heat coiling under my skin.

“You’re wound tight,” he murmured. “Does this hurt?” His fingers skimmed the side of my waist, then stopped at my elbow. I flinched. He froze. I’d been burned before; this was nothing worse than the morning after hard sex; it was a beautiful reminder of what I’d felt .

He didn’t say anything. Just pressed his palm flat to my ribs—solid, warm, a weight that anchored instead of constrained. I couldn’t breathe for a second.

“You’re okay,” he said, and I believed him, although I didn’t want to.

My heart kicked in my chest and I wanted to push him away.

Instead, I sat there, bare-chested, half in his clothes, pinned under his gaze, while he touched me as if he wasn’t afraid of what he’d find. And I hated that it felt good.

“Why didn’t you come here?”

Well, what in god’s name could I say to that?

You scare me! I’m dragging you down! I don’t understand any of this!

Instead, I grunted, and he passed me two tablets and poured some water from a bottle into a glass, gesturing for me to take them. I hesitated; he waggled the glass. I muttered; he rolled his eyes.

I swallowed the pills; he smiled.

“Good boy.” He paused. “You’re hurt. You’re exhausted. You don’t get to make reckless decisions about leaving right now because you’re scared of what happens if you stay.”

“And you don’t get to make decisions for me,” I snapped, as my heart thudded against my ribs.

He let go of my wrist and stared at me with those cold eyes that saw way too much. “You want to leave?” he said. “Go ahead. Walk. But don’t lie to yourself about why you’re doing it.”

I stood instinctively, ignoring the pulse of pain in my side. “Fine.”

But before I could step past him, he moved—crowding me, one hand braced beside my head on the wall, the other closing around the base of my throat. Not squeezing. Just there .

I shivered.

“Don’t lie to me either,” he said, voice low and dangerous.

“You like this. You want me to tell you to stay so you can rest and heal, you just don’t know how to ask for it.

” My breath caught as his thumb stroked the side of my neck—barely a whisper of touch—and I swayed forward before I caught myself.

He was holding me, but he wasn’t hurting me.

How was that possible? “I think you need someone to tell you when to stop,” he continued, that dominant calm threaded with something hotter now.

“I have Rio.”

“He’s not here.”

“I can call him.” I really didn’t want to call him, because I’d fucked up so bad and I couldn’t face his anger and worse, his disappointment.

“Go on then,” he said, indicating my phone, with its cracked screen, charging in the bedside cabinet. He can come and get you.”

I hated how my knees went weak. “Fuck you.”

He tightened his grip for a brief moment, “I could make you stay,” he said, lower now, a breath against my jaw. “Strip you out of my shirt, press you back into the sheets, and hold you there until the meds kick in.”

I swallowed hard. “You’re not in charge of me.”

“No,” he agreed. “But you want me to be.”

That snapped something in me. “You don’t know what I want.”

His gaze dropped to my mouth, and for one suspended second, it felt as though the air between us might catch fire. “I know you want to fight something,” he said. “I know you want to push back until you hit something solid. Until someone won’t let you fall.”

I didn’t respond. Couldn’t.

He stepped back just enough to let the space fill with my silence.

“You want to leave?” he asked again, cool, calm, and controlled. “Say it. Or get back in bed.”

The words hit like a punch to the gut. I stood there, throat dry, skin flushed, heart hammering as if it didn’t know what it wanted.

Leave? I could. I’d done it before. Walked out, cut ties, and killed anyone who hurt me, until the smoke choked me.

But something about the way Killian watched me, still, sure, waiting—not begging, not commanding—just expecting —made me feel like running would destroy something in me.

I hated that. Hated him. Hated this.

So I did the only thing I could.

I sat.

The bed creaked under me, the cotton sheets cool.

My hands trembled, fists curled in the fabric, grounding myself in something—anything.

Rage, shame, relief, I couldn’t tell which was winning.

My body obeyed, even while my mind screamed at me to run.

And that scared me more than anything—that staying felt worse than burning.

Killian didn’t say anything right away as he reached for the edge of the sheet.

He drew it up over me with care, tucking it around my waist and legs, not letting it drag across the burns.

His hands were steady, impersonal in the way a good lie is—no lingering touches, no sharp edges. Just control. Just care.

Then, he leaned in and pressed a kiss to my forehead. My nose. Gently to my lips. And it burned hotter than any fire I’d ever lit. “I could have helped, Pretty. You should have come to me.” I squirmed away as though the contact had scalded me, and he sighed. “Sleep.”

That was all. One freaking word. But it was enough. Like everything else he did, it came wrapped in command and comfort, and despite every instinct telling me I had to run… I closed my eyes.