Page 56 of Jamie

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 thosecold 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. Justthere.

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, withits 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, “Icouldmake 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.”

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