Chapter Eighteen — Vinny
I woke slowly, feeling heavy.
The pain under my ribs was a low, insistent throb, but it anchored me. Reminded me I was still breathing when I hadn’t expected to be. I shifted in bed and groaned, turning away from the sunlight burning through the window. The scent of garlic and chicken made my stomach growl.
When I opened my eyes, Jamie came into focus.
She sat in the chair at the foot of the bed, posture rigid, eyes alert. She looked like she hadn’t slept. Maybe hadn’t moved at all. The moment our gazes met, something electric passed between us — relief mixed with resentment.
She stood and walked over. Unscrewed a water bottle. Raised it to my cracked lips. I guzzled it like ambrosia. She pulled it back, then pressed two pills to my mouth when I didn’t reach for them. Her fingers brushed my lips. Our eyes stayed locked the entire time.
Something had shifted while I was busy not dying. She could have walked away that night, but she chose to kneel in my blood instead. She was a runner, but she stayed. How could I not be moved by that?
She lifted a bowl from the nightstand. “Eat.”
I nodded. She filled the spoon, pursed her lips, and blew on it. I swear to God, it was the sexiest fucking thing I’d ever seen. Maybe it was the fever. Maybe I was just that far gone. But that small act hit me harder than the bullet.
She fed me. Her fingers brushed my jaw. I felt it everywhere — my chest, my spine, my dick. What the fuck was wrong with me?
I couldn’t take the eye contact anymore. I looked away first.
“How’d you stay hidden so long?” I asked, voice wrecked. “All these years. They said you vanished.”
She set the bowl down and leaned back, arms crossed like armor. “I kept moving. Never stayed long. Shaved my head. Dressed like a man. Slept under bridges when I had to.” A pause. “People stop looking when you stop being what they expect.”
“You didn’t have to save me,” I said.
“No,” she agreed.
“So why?”
Her gaze flickered, then returned. “You didn’t have to come back to let me go, but you did. I couldn’t let that die.”
The silence stretched, thick with everything we weren’t saying.
“I’m sorry,” I rasped. “For the shit I did. For those nights—”
“I let you do it,” she cut in, thumb grazing the scar on her collarbone. “I’m not a victim.”
She stood abruptly. “You need to rest.” She grabbed the bowl and bottle and walked out, tension tight in her spine. Her hand gripped the bowl hard, like she was holding back more.
She’d saved me.
And now, whether she wanted it or not, I was going to save her.