I stayed there, grounding both of us, waiting. “Do you believe me, Pretty?”
His lashes fluttered. Then, after a beat, he sighed and reached out to flick something on the wall behind him. I didn’t move. I just waited. No fire. No click. No hiss of ignition.
He trusted me. Maybe only a little. But enough.
“In the spirit of honesty,” Jamie murmured, “thewall of fire would’ve stopped two feet back from me. And the window’s unlocked for me to get out.” I blinked, and he gave a lopsided shrug. “You’d have been the only one dying.”
“Hmm, doesn’t sound as romantic,” I deadpanned, letting my voice drop into a mock-serious tone as I kept my forehead against his.
“Did you mean it?” he asked, softly.
I was confused by the shift in tone. “I swear, we didn’t know the depths that Lassiter?—”
“No, the other thing,” he interrupted, more insistent this time, his gaze locked onto mine.
“What thing?” I teased, brushing my thumb along his cheek again, the warmth of him grounding me.
“You said you loved me,” he murmured, voice smaller now, as if it cost him something to say it aloud.
“I do,” I said, without hesitation.
“Repeat it?”
I smiled. “I love you, Pretty.”
“What does it feel like?” he asked, his fingers tightening at my hip.
“Me loving you?” I echoed, tilting my head so I could see more of his expression.
“Yeah.”
“Obsession at first,” I let each word linger. “Need.” I brushed my thumb along his cheek again. “Quiet peace.” I took a shallow breath. “Anger. Lust.” My voice dipped lower. “Desperation to touch… wishing for a future with you, whatever happens. That’s my love.” I cupped his jaw fully, making sure he heard every word.
He hummed again, then his other hand slid to rest at my hip. “Then, I love you, too, Killian,” he said, with all the raw honesty I’d been desperate to hear. “But if you lie to me, if I find out that you’re not for real, then I will end you,” he said, not with anger, but with a cold finality that made my breath catch.
The words hit hard because they were true. Not a threat, but a promise born from pain. I nodded slightly, not to agree, but to acknowledge the weight of it. My chest ached with everything I still hadn’t said. This wasn’t a man bluffing.
“I know.”
“And fuck, Killian, for the love of all that’s holy, stop calling me Pretty.”
TWENTY-FIVE
Jamie
It had beenthree days since the love-yous—three days since Killian had watched me gather my tools of fire with a silence that said too much and not enough. He walked me to his car, and the kiss he gave me before I left was brutal—hungry, as if he was branding me with the press of his mouth. I’d whimpered into it, wanting to crawl back inside the heat of him, but instead, he’d pulled away and said he had work to do.
I hadn’t seen him since.
It gnawed at me, this thing with Lassiter—how Killian was being blackmailed, how he’d carried it without telling me. Last night, I went digging, chasing any remote threads online that might connect Killianto Lassiter. I found nothing. No smoking gun, no secret files. Static.
Maybe I should have blind faith and trust in the man I said I loved.
But I’d said I loved my parents once, too.
And look how that had turned out.
It turns out that love doesn’t mean you get tokeeppeople. Or that they ever truly belonged to you in the first place. They hurt you. They died. And I was left behind. So, no—I didn’t trust easily.
