Chapter 15
The fire hadn't killed him.
It had rebirthed him.
Negan's body bore new scars—fresh burns across his ribs and collarbone, a gash splitting his brow—but his eyes had never looked clearer. More lucid. More decided.
"You'll come back to me," he whispered into the dark, as if Vanessa could hear him.
"You were made for this."
He poured scotch over the still-healing wound, hissed, then smiled.
He could still feel her breath against his neck.
The way she lied with her tongue but told the truth with her body.
Vanessa was unraveling.
And he loved her more with every thread that came loose.
Vanessa couldn't sleep.
The hospital room was too white. Too clean. Too fake.
She stared at the ceiling, the scent of smoke still tangled in her hair. Her throat was bruised. Her lip split.
But none of that hurt as much as the heat still between her thighs—his fingerprints, somehow ghosted there. Her body wanted what her mind hated.
She pressed a hand between her legs.
"No," she whispered. "Don't."
But her fingers moved anyway.
Shame rolled through her in waves.
Then a voice at the door.
"I figured you'd be awake."
Miles.
She pulled the blanket higher. "I don't want to talk."
"I'm not here to talk," he said, setting down a manila folder.
She narrowed her eyes. "What is that?"
"Negan's file. The real one. Birth certificate. Government clearance. Psychiatric holds."
She stared at the folder like it was a bomb.
He nodded. "You're not crazy. He's been sick. For years."
Her voice cracked. "Why didn't anyone stop him?"
"Because he always chooses the ones no one believes."
Camille was gone.
The hospital records showed she'd never checked in.
Miles had searched the burned compound—found traces of blood, a torn shoe, a trail that led to the woods.
Then nothing.
She'd vanished.
Or…escaped.
And Vanessa couldn't tell if that made her jealous or relieved.
That night, in her apartment, Vanessa poured herself two fingers of bourbon.
Her hand trembled.
She should've moved. Left the city. Started over.
But she couldn't.
Because her dreams still brought him back.
Because her body still ached for him—a heat that made no sense.
Because no one had ever seen her like Negan had.
Even if he had destroyed her.
The letter arrived the next morning.
No name. No return address.
Just her name scrawled in thick black ink:
"Come see what you left behind."
Inside was a key.
And a photo.
Of herself—sleeping.
Her heart stopped.
She flipped the photo over. Three words written in blood-red ink:
"This is love."
She didn't call Miles.
Didn't tell anyone.
She took the key, grabbed her coat, and left.
The building was one she recognized—Negan's old loft, thought destroyed in the fire.
But the elevator still worked.
The lights flickered as she descended.
Her heart was pounding before the door even opened.
What she saw inside made her knees buckle.
The walls were covered in photos—of her. Sleeping. Laughing. Crying. Masturbating.
Every moment of weakness catalogued.
And in the center of the room—a dining table set for two.
He stepped from the shadows.
Bandaged.
Smiling.
"Miss me?"
She should have run.
She didn't.
"Why are you doing this?" she breathed.
"Because I love you," he said.
He stepped closer.
She didn't back away.
"I burned you," she whispered.
He touched his scarred cheek. "You branded me. That's not the same."
She slapped him.
Hard.
He didn't flinch.
"Feel better?" he asked.
She hit him again. "You ruined me."
His voice was low. "You freed me."
Her fists pounded his chest.
He let her.
Until she was sobbing into him.
And he held her like a lover. Like a priest. Like a man who knew she would never belong to anyone else again.
They fucked on the dining table.
There was no seduction. No patience.
He bent her over, tore her panties off, and slid inside her like he owned her body—like he was reminding her it had always been his.
She cried out.
He didn't stop.
"Say it," he growled.
"No—"
He pulled her hair back, lips at her ear. "Say you're mine."
"I hate you—"
He went deeper. Rougher.
She moaned.
He bit her shoulder. "Say it."
She gasped. "I'm yours."
He came with a groan that sounded like victory and grief all at once.
And when he collapsed over her, he whispered:
"We're just getting started."
Miles stared at Vanessa's empty bed.
And the cameras around her apartment now dead.
He whispered the truth that chilled him:
"He's got her again."