Chapter Seven: The Final Attempt.
Jamie's POV
I wake up and the first thing I feel is this dull, sick ache in every bone.
Then the stitches in my shoulder tug and the pain shoots straight to my brain.
I blink at the ceiling and it's the same dark wood, same stupid skylight, same cage.
I'm back.
All that running, the hunger, the cold nights curled up under pine needles praying I wouldn't freeze, the bear ripping me open; all of it for nothing.
I'm right back in his bed like some boomerang that can't stay thrown.
My eyes burn instantly. I hate the tears. I hate that they come so easy now.
The door creaks.
Of course he's there.
Luther's leaning against the frame, arms folded, that lazy smirk that makes me want to scream and hide at the same time.
"Look who's awake," he says, voice low and warm like nothing happened.
"Have fun on your little camping trip, princess?"
The nickname punches me in the gut.
I turn my face into the pillow so he can't see how red my cheeks get. Shame tastes metallic on my tongue.
He walks over, sits on the edge of the bed. The mattress dips and I hate how my body automatically leans toward the weight.
"You were thirty minutes east," he says, amused.
"Same three miles, three whole days. You drew perfect little circles, baby. Almost proud of you."
The humiliation is so hot I can't breathe.
"You knew," I rasp. My voice is wrecked from screaming in the woods.
"You knew the whole time and you let that thing…"
"I warned you," he cuts in, calm as ever. "Woods are dangerous. You needed the lesson."
I want to spit in his face. I want to thank him for shooting the bear.
Both feelings live in my chest at once and it's killing me.
He leans in, breath against my ear. "So… no thank you? No kiss for the guy who saved your life?"
"Go to hell," I choke out. "You should've let me die."
His hand cups my cheek, thumb brushing the tears I didn't want him to see.
"Never."
Then his mouth is on mine, hard and hungry, and for one stupid second I kiss him back before I remember I'm supposed to hate him.
I shove at his chest; it's like shoving a wall.
He sighs like I'm being dramatic. "I've been patient, Jamie. But I'm done waiting."
The next days are suffocating.
He decides everything. When I eat the stupid perfect meals he cooks, when I shower…he watches, says it's because I might fall, when I sleep, he always with his arm locked around my waist like a seatbelt.
But the worst part? The care.
When he changes my bandages his fingers are so gentle I almost cry again.
He kisses every stitch, every bruise, murmurs "good boy" when I don't flinch from the antiseptic.
I hate how safe it feels. I hate that I start waiting for it.
One afternoon he's re-wrapping my shoulder and I can't stop staring.
His brow is creased in focus, lips pressed thin, and for a second he looks… soft. Human.
Not the man who smiled while a bear bled out on top of me.
The words slip out before I can stop them.
"How do you do it?" My voice is barely a whisper. "How do you kill people and then… do this?"
He doesn't look up right away. Just finishes the knot, slow.
"You think it's black and white?" he finally says. "Good guys, bad guys?" He meets my eyes and there's no smirk now.
"The men I kill sell kids, Jamie. Start wars for profit. Poison water supplies so their stock goes up. I'm just the cleanup crew."
He takes my hand like it's normal. His thumb traces my knuckles.
"I sleep fine."
I yank my hand away like he burned me. "That's how you justify it? God, you're disgusting."
He just smiles, small and sad, and it hurts worse than anger.
I go stir-crazy.
End up in his study because at least the smell of him is there even when he isn't.
I hate that I notice. I hate the little kick in my chest when I realize the room is empty.
I start opening drawers like an idiot.
Top drawer: pens.
Second: boring files.
Bottom drawer: gun.
Cold. Heavy. Real.
My heart stops.
"Go on," his voice comes from the doorway, soft and amused. "Pick it up, baby. If you're ever serious about leaving."
He's leaning there, book dangling from one hand, watching me like this is his favorite show.
My hands shake so bad I can barely close my fingers around the grip.
I lift it. Point it at his chest.
"Back off," I say, and my voice cracks like I'm twelve.
He starts walking toward me.
Slow.
"Sure of yourself?" he asks, conversational. "Stance is shit. You're shaking so hard you'll miss."
"Stop!" I scream. Tears are already streaming. "I'll shoot, I swear…"
Another step.
"No," he says, soft, certain, eyes locked on mine. "You won't, princess."
My finger tightens.
I pull the trigger.
BANG!