Page 26 of Bounty

Large, rough hands run up my leg, and I nuzzle into a broad, hard chest. The haze between wakefulness and sleep settles over me.

“No.” I swat the hand away, then roll over.

A warm body presses up to my back, and a hand wraps around my neck.

“I’m not asking. Wake up, we have things to do.”

I jolt awake, and am turned over onto my back. Jude’s large body hovers over mine, smiling. Or at least his version of a smile. His eyes never seem quite bright enough for a true, genuine smile.

As I scan the room, I realize this isn’t the room I fell asleep in last night. This room is softer, more feminine, with a dusty pink, cream, and rose gold color scheme. The furniture is white oak and seems expensive. It’s another real life magazine photo.

“How did I get here?” I ask him.

“Cain carried you in here after you fell asleep.”

Jude’s chest is bare, and I can see the white bandage over his shoulder from his gunshot wound. The entirety of the night rushes me, and I remember how angry I felt. How turned on Iwas. How I wanted to hug him and tell him everything would be okay, while also wanting to rage at him for daring to make me feel that way.

Only Jude can make me feel like I want to love him and hate him. It’s why he’s so dangerous—why I should keep my distance from him.

“Why are you here if this is my room?”

“Because when I came to check on you a few hours ago, you were crying in your sleep. So, I slept in here with you.”

I practically fall out of bed in my haste to get away from him. I open a door, and it’s a closet, with my duffel bag on the ground and the few things I packed hanging up.

He sighs, pointing to a door. “The bathroom.”

I shut the door behind me and pee, then wash my hands in scalding hot water to wake myself up. There’s a new toothbrush and toothpaste on the counter, and I use them to brush my teeth. I play with the charms on my bracelet, something I do whenever I’m nervous. My aunt gave it to me the day we left the farm and told me to never take it off. My mother wore it before me, and it makes me feel connected to them.

But now that I know they weren’t my real family, I can’t even find comfort in my old crutch.

The door opens, and Jude strolls in, like it’s completely normal for us to be in each other’s orbit like this. He stands behind me, his hands gripping the counter caging me in. There’s no space between us and his proximity messes with my head. His eucalyptus and woodsy scent makes me forget how much I can’t stand him.

“What are you doing?”

“Keeping an eye on you, so you don’t run off again. The last time you did I got shot.” He smiles again, and there is a lightness to his tone, as if he’s joking with me.

Jude doesn’t show me this side of him. We never laughed growing up—he always looked at me with such an intensity that I couldn’t help but feel its weight. Colin and Cain get his lighter side from time to time, but never me. My eyes land on the bandage and a wave of guilt crashes into me. Then anger and shame set in.

If I had just worn his clothes, or if he would have gotten my bag, he wouldn’t be wounded. If we weren’t so toxic, everything would be so much easier between us.

But forgiving means forgetting. How can I just forget years of Jude’s treatment? He claims he did it out of some misplaced passion, because he knew he couldn’t have me, but that doesn’t make it right.

He cups my jaw in his hand, angling it so I can see him in the mirror. Lean, strong muscles cut an imposing figure. His stark facial features give him a sinister vibe, although he’s still as handsome as he was six years ago. The confidence he had in his early twenties only grew.

My stepbrother has grown into the kind of man women drool over. And he wants me. The girl he threw in the lake. The teenager he practically stalked all over the farm, never giving me a moment’s peace. The young woman he gave that goodbye letter to…

“Hey, I was joking. We didn’t anticipate that happening,” he whispers, running his other hand over my stomach in soothing passes.

“Well I am overrated and obnoxious,” I quote his letter. His eyes flare in recognition as his jaw clenches. “Sorry you had to take a bullet for someone so disposable.”

“How many times have you read that letter?” he asks.

“Every time I missed you guys or deluded myself into believing one of you would find me and take me home, I’d take it out of my wallet and read it. So many times, I lost count.”

“Stay here. Don’t move,” he orders me. And even though I shouldn’t, I stay.

He comes back with my purse, then digs through it to find a lighter and the letter. He reads it, his brow furrowing at his own words. He frowns, then lights it on fire and drops it in the sink. He wraps his arms around me from behind as we watch it burn. An invisible weight is lifted from my chest as I see his painful words turn to ash.

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