Page 65 of Jamie

TWENTY-THREE

Jamie

The way Killian touched me,held me. How I came apart, not when he was rough, but when his voice was low, when his hands slowed and his mouth pressed gently against my jaw as if he gave a shit. It reminded me of a moment I’d buried deep—a time when someone had touched me like that, once, before the world had taught me gentleness came with strings, with lies, with pain dressed in kindness. That gentleness was the beginning of the end. It always had been. Rough, I could handle. Rough made sense. But kindness? That could destroy me. What the fuck was that about? I couldn’t handle that. I didn’t want gentle. Didn’t want to be seen. I needed hard and fast and meaningless. That was what kept me safe.

I pointed at him, not caring how much it hurt when my burns stretched. “Get out.”

Killian blinked, but I didn’t wait for him to argue. I got up, unsteady, and stomped to my room, every step screaming.

“Fuck off!” I yelled because silence was too much.

I climbed into my bed, into the tangle of blankets and sheets smelling like old soap and the heat of old nightmares. Familiar. Safe. Mine.

I curled into myself and stared at the wall.

I didn’t want gentle. Not from him. Not from anyone. The last time someone had touched me with care—my dad on a good day—he’d smiled while breaking me in half. Kindness had been the mask pain wore, and I’d learned to run from it faster than I ever had from fists. At least violence was honest.

Because if Killian could make me fall apart with kindness, what the hell else could he break in me?

I woke up to pain.

Not the sharp kind that stole your breath, but the deep, dragging kind that settled in your bones like it was planning to stay. My muscles were stiff, locked tight. Every breath scraped raw across bruised ribs. The meds had worn off hours ago, but I hadn’t wanted to wake Killian.

Because the asshole had opened my door, brought in pills and water, and stayed.

That part made no sense. I’d told him to leave, but he was still here, quiet, still, sitting in a chair he’d dragged in from the kitchen.

“What’r’you’doin?” I rasped.

“It lives,” he deadpanned.

I tried to sit up. My body shut that down fast. “Fuck.”

Killian didn’t move. Didn’t offer help. Just sat there, hands resting loosely on his knees, watching me come undone one inch at a time. I hated how much I wanted him to reach for me. But worse than that was remembering what happened before I blacked out and how he’d pulled me apart with gentle freaking care.

“Why are you still here?” I asked, my voice scraping.

“You want me to go?”

I opened my mouth, then shut it again. “You shouldn’t have stayed.”

“I know,” he said. “I stayed anyway.”

The silence between us turned thick, too charged. And I couldn’t stop remembering. The way he’d kissed me last night—as if I were something more than fire and sharp edges. His hands on my face. Hismouth on mine. The frantic, tangled way we’d grabbed at each other like we were drowning and neither one of us cared what it cost.

I’d needed it. Needed him. And he’d let me have it.

“Last night was a mistake,” I said, but the words came out too fast, too brittle. I hesitated, jaw tight, eyes flicking away. “You shouldn’t have let me—” The end of the sentence frayed. I wanted to blame him. Needed to. But the truth was messier, tangled with things I didn’t want to feel, let alone say.

“I didn’t let you do anything,” Killian cut in, voice low. “You weren’t in control. Neither was I. We both took what we needed.”

I swallowed hard, voice raw. “I used you.”

“Bullshit. You think I didn’t know exactly what was happening? You think I didn’t want it?”

“I didn’t ask you to want it.”

“No.” Killian’s expression was thoughtful. “You asked with your hands. With your mouth. And I said yes.”

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