“Bed.”
“Fuck you!” He tried to roll off the sofa, but he was wobbly, and grimaced in pain. I tried to help, but he shoved me, and it was Caleb who caught him and held him upright as they headed for the bedroom. Caleb helped to lay him down, fixed it so he had water next to the bed, and watched him succumb to sleep.
“What the fuck, Killian?” he asked me when he came back. “Why was he setting a fire, and why didn’t he get himself out?”
I wish I knew about the second part, but the first part was all too easy to understand. He’d wanted the fire and had chosen a property connected to Lassiter.
All I could do was shrug.
Then, I called Rio to tell him that Jamie was at my place, hurt, and that went down as well as a lit match in a powder keg. Rio exploded—shouting, cursing, demanding why I hadn’t called him sooner, why was Jamie near a fire, and why I thought bringing him to my place and not straight to Redcars was a good idea. What was it with all the questions right now?
“You probably need to ask him why he was in a fire. But hey, not tonight, yeah? Let him sleep this off. I’ll call you in the morning.”
Rio muttered something and cursed. “Call Doc if you need to, we can cover it.”
“Already done. Already paid.”
“Fuck,” Rio snapped.
Yep.Fuck.
NINETEEN
Jamie
I saton 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 wrappedaround 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.
