Chapter 28 Jamie
Jamie
The falafel’s gone cold, but at least she ate most of it.
The cherry Coke sits half-empty beside the bed, the red straw bent like it’s been nervously chewed between her teeth.
She looks smaller now, sitting against the wall with her knees drawn up, the chain around her ankle slack.
The dim light from the single bulb above throws her features into sharp relief—her eyes wide, aware, scanning, even in defeat.
I shouldn’t be studying her, but I can’t look away.
“Can I ask you something?” she says, her voice soft but careful.
I pretend to scroll through my phone, but my thumb is frozen. I can’t hide the way my chest tightens when I hear her words.
“Of course, baby.” The word slips out before I can stop it, and her grimace makes me fill with guilt. I swallow hard. “Sorry. Habit.”
Her eyes narrow. “Where the hell are we? Some kind of hunting cabin?”
“Hide house,” I say, dragging a hand through my hair. The cut on my temple still stings where she clocked me with the mug earlier. The memory makes me flinch. “Hunters use them. People who don’t want to be found. No cameras, no neighbors. Quiet.”
She blinks slowly. “That’s not a thing.”
“It’s a thing,” I insist. My voice is firmer than I feel. She’s watching me too closely, like she knows exactly what I’m thinking.
Her confusion sharpens into suspicion. “What kind of shady stuff are you and Miles into?”
I look at her. The truth is a knife I can’t risk pulling out. “I can’t tell you,” I say finally.
Her laugh is sharp. “Or what—you’d have to kill me?”
I freeze.
The color drains from her face as the silence stretches, heavy and suffocating, thicker than the walls of this hideaway.
Ten minutes pass. Maybe more. I can hear her breathing, measured now, the cuff clinking faintly when she shifts.
My chest hammers.
I want to cross the room, pull her into my arms, and keep her safe, and yet, part of me wants to punish her for questioning me. For existing in a way that defies me.
“Can I talk to my mom?” she asks finally, her voice smaller, careful.
I blink at her, fighting every impulse. “You don’t seem to get how this kidnapping thing works,” I say. But even as the words leave my mouth, I feel the pull of something that isn’t just authority. It’s guilt.
“It’s not like that,” she says quickly. “We always text once a day. Just so she doesn’t worry.”
I study her face, trying to decide if she’s playing me. Manipulation or genuine concern—it’s impossible to tell. She’s too calm, too careful. Too clever.
“If you don’t want to trust me,” she adds, almost apologetic, “that’s cool.”
I exhale hard. “You’re tied to a bed, Chloe. We’re past that.”
And still, the look in her eyes gnaws at me. Maybe she’s telling the truth. Maybe one text won’t hurt. I stand, running a hand over my face. The guilt twists me inside.
“Stay put,” I mutter, voice rough.
Outside, the cold air cuts me like knives. I dig through her bag, searching for her phone. My fingers fumble, heart hammering. Then I hear a click. The front door swings open, carrying the faint creak of the frame across the trees.
“Fuck.”
I bolt inside. The door’s open. The sheet’s on the floor. The Coke has spilled, staining the wood dark. My pulse spikes.
“Chloe!”
I see her through the window—bare legs flashing in gray shorts, hair flying as she darts across the clearing.
My chest tightens and I run before I even process the thought.
She’s fast, panic fueling her every step.
But she doesn’t know the terrain. She trips over a root.
My hands clamp around her waist, hauling her upright before she can hit the ground.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” My voice is rougher than I mean. “Can you stay put for once?”
She twists in my grip, wild-eyed. “Get the fuck off me!”
I hold her there, breathing hard, our faces inches apart. The scent of her—fear, defiance, something softer beneath it all—assaults me. Her pulse is frantic against my chest, and for a long second, I wonder if it’s mine or hers pounding that I feel.
“So stubborn,” I mutter, almost to myself.
Her breath catches. The world narrows to the space between us—the sound of wind through the trees, the hammering of our hearts, the faint snap of branches beneath our feet.
Dirt smears across her cheek, a mark that shouldn’t matter, and yet it does.
I catch the corner of her mouth trembling with tension and desire, and I hate myself for noticing.
I hate that I want her like this—angry, frightened, alive.
I’m the one who breaks first. I lean in, voice low. “Stop running, Chloe.”
She stares at me, defiance burning in her eyes. For a moment, I can’t tell if I’m begging her or commanding her. My fingers tighten on her waist, not enough to hurt, just enough to remind her that I’m here, that she’s mine to find, mine to stop.
The world blurs. My thoughts collide—guilt, lust, fear, the raw edge of something I can’t cross. She’s too sharp to be mine, too free. And yet, right here, right now, she is.
When I finally let go, she stumbles back, shaking. I turn my face away, jaw tight, the metallic taste of regret bitter on my tongue.
“Don’t do that again,” I say quietly.
We stand like that for a long moment, the cold closing in around us, and I realize how fragile everything is.
How quickly control can slip, how easily I can become the villain of this story.
I want to protect her. I want to punish her.
And somewhere deep down, I know I want her to hate me, to need me, to fear me—and still, still look at me the way she does now.
The way her eyes track me makes me aware of everything—her chest rising and falling, the little twitch in her shoulder as she balances, the way her hair sticks to her damp skin.
I want to reach for her again. My hands itch to hold, to steady, to dominate.
I want to apologize for every harsh word and every bruise I gave her, and I want to leave marks she’ll remember when I’m gone.
Instead, I carry her back into the cabin.
“Sit down,” I finally mutter, voice low, almost pleading. She hesitates, then lowers herself back against the wall, knees drawn up. This time, I ruffle the drawers for a chain. It’s a lot better than the torn sheet.
The chain clinks softly, a reminder of the boundary I can’t—or won’t—cross. I sit a foot away, close enough that our shoulders almost brush, and my thumb traces idle patterns on my jeans.
Her gaze doesn’t leave mine. “You’re…” she starts and then stops. “What is this, Jamie? I thought you were just a hockey player with a scary dad that owns a bar. You guys are acting like…” Her words falter. She doesn’t finish the thought.
I smirk, but it’s sharp, brittle. “I’m a lot of things.” Truth is, she has no idea. She’ll never know half of it. Not until she’s in too deep. And maybe not even then.
She shifts slightly, hair falling over her face. “I don’t know why I… I can’t…” Her voice cracks, and I catch it. Desire, fear, something raw bleeding through. My chest tightens, the ache of want twisting into guilt. I shouldn’t feel this. I shouldn’t allow it. And yet, I do.
“You’re not supposed to understand,” I say.
I stand, pacing a few steps. “One day,” I mutter, almost to myself, “you’ll realize some things can’t be explained.
” Her eyes track me, sharp and accusing.
I want to look away, to hide the truth in my gaze, but I can’t.
I want her to see it all—the danger, the obsession, the way my thoughts twist around her like chains.
“Jamie…” Her voice is soft now, tentative, the first crack in her armor.
I stop, pulse hammering, and look at her. I want to kneel before her, beg her not to hate me, not to leave, not to make me do what I will regret. I want to pull her into my arms and never let go. But I can’t.
Instead, I reach down, picking up the Coke can she’d dropped earlier. The red liquid dribbles across my hand, sticky and cold.
“You’re lucky,” I mutter, “that’s the only thing you’ve spilled.”
She gives me a look—equal parts scorn and amusement—and I swear my chest might burst from the tension.
The wind picks up outside, rustling the trees, carrying the faint scent of rain.
Her hair tangles against her neck. I want to reach for it, to tuck it behind her ear, to smell it, to press her closer until she can’t tell where I end and she begins.
And then I remember the chain, the isolation, the power I hold and shouldn’t.
The moral line I teeter on is razor-thin, and I feel it slice across my conscience with every heartbeat.
I kneel slightly to match her height, hands hovering just inches from her knees.
“Don’t run again,” I murmur, my voice low, nearly pleading.
She swallows, eyes wide, lips parted, and I can’t read if she’s afraid or curious.
My thumb brushes a stray hair from her forehead, the tiniest act, and the ache in my chest twists into something darker, more possessive.
She doesn’t move away. She doesn’t resist. And that’s when I realize she’s testing me, the same way I’m testing her. Every glance, every word, every movement is a negotiation of control, of trust, of danger.
Her gaze drops for a fraction of a second, and I catch the faintest tremor in her jaw. I want to make it stop. I want to claim it as my own. But I also know that if I do, if I step over that line, there’s no going back.
“Stay here,” I whisper, standing.
“Where the fuck would I go when you have me tied up, Jamie?”
My shadow stretches across the floor, looming over her in a way that should feel threatening. But she doesn’t flinch. She watches me leave the room to secure the door, to make sure no one can disturb this fragile, combustible balance we’ve created.
When I return, I see her shift slightly, body coiled and tense, ready to bolt, ready to fight, ready to beg. And somewhere deep inside, I know I’ll let her do all three.
We stand there together, trapped in the cold and the dark and the moral gray of everything we’ve become, neither prisoner nor captor entirely, the boundary between desire and danger so thin I can feel it cutting through my skin.
And I know, without speaking it aloud, that nothing will ever be simple again.
Her breath shudders out, and I notice it the scrape along her ankle, a thin line of blood where the cuff rubbed raw when she ran. The sight makes guilt heavy in my chest. I kneel again, reaching for the rag near the basin, wetting it with what little water’s left.
She watches me the whole time, wary but silent. When I touch her ankle, she jerks slightly, then stills. The skin is warm beneath my fingers, trembling under the pressure of the cloth. I press lighter, careful now, letting the silence fill the space between us.
“Does it hurt?” I ask.
She gives a small shrug. “Not enough to matter.”
I huff a quiet laugh. “You’d say that even if you’d lost a toe.”
That earns me a faint flicker of a smile, barely there, but real.
It softens something sharp in my chest. I keep cleaning, slow, deliberate.
The smell of rain drifts through the cracked window, mixing with the faint metallic tang of blood.
I shouldn’t find the sound of her breathing this distracting.
She studies me, eyes tracing every movement. “Why are you doing that?”
“Because I care about you,” I say simply.
She scowls at me and then her expression softens. Her lips part but no sound comes out. I feel her pulse beating under my fingers, her skin so soft it feels like a secret. My hand lingers a second too long, then slides up, over the bone of her ankle to the curve of her calf. She doesn’t move away.
I look up. Her eyes catch mine, and the room shrinks again. The lamp hums faintly. Outside, the wind picks up. The air feels alive.
“Chloe…” My voice comes out rough, quieter than a whisper.
She leans in before I even realize she’s moved. The distance disappears in a heartbeat. My hand rises, brushing a streak of dirt from her cheek, my thumb catching the edge of her jaw. Her breath catches against my mouth.
I don’t think.
I kiss her.
Her lips are soft, colder than I expect, tasting faintly of Coke and rain. Then she exhales, and the tension between us breaks like a storm. The kiss deepens. She presses closer, and my hand slides to the back of her neck, anchoring her there as if letting go might undo everything.
When I pull back, her eyes are open, fixed on mine. No fear now. Just heat, confusion, defiance, and something that feels too much like trust.
I rest my forehead against hers, breathing hard. “You shouldn’t have let me do that,” I murmur.
“Untie me and fuck me before Miles gets back,” she says. But her voice is soft.
My eyes meet hers, asking if she’s serious. Or if she’s trying to play me.
Outside, thunder rolls somewhere distant, and I realize that no matter what I tell myself, my dick is already stiff, and I’m too far gone.