Page 24 of Jazz

“You heard him,” our President bellowed, “get Thrash out of here.”

“Don’t fucking touch me!” the angry ginger bull warned.

“Thrash, mate. Not now,” Dougal took a step. It was tentative, like he was approaching a bomb.

I cradled Jazz to my chest. But I didn’t look up. Even when I spoke.

“Get out of here, Thrash, before you regret squeezing that ugly face of yours out ya mother’s cunt.”

“I’ll fucking scalp you, ya Smoggie twat.”

I turned my head, fixing my eyes on him. Anger clouded my brain, compromising my thinking. He was bigger. Stronger. But right now, he wasn’t angrier.

“Dougal. He either gets the fuck out of here or we have another dead president on our hands. And I don’t give a fuck which.”

Behind me, there was an atmosphere. But here, right here, in my arms, all that didn’t matter.

Chapter Fifteen

I’d felt the pop of the ties. I counted in fractions as my wrists loosened, my arms moving away from each other. Weightless. Falling. Falling from a height I had no idea of. I was blind, and flailing. And then it went darker than ever before.

Around me there was a drone of voices. Mutterings growing louder. Getting closer. And a low steady beat. Someone’s heart, but I didn’t know whether I was listening to it or feeling it. My head was a thrum of confusion, of time lost. Of pain. And fear and panic and uncertainty.

But I could smell him. It was strong. Forced against my nose. Even before thought came back, I knew him. That smell. Pine needles crushed sharp, resin thick and green, that faint chemical bite underneath. Chase. Always Chase. It hit harder now, pressed close, wrapping around me until it filled my lungs and drowned out the stink of rust and sweat and blood.

I hated how it steadied me. Hated how familiar it was, how my body clung to it even when my mind screamed not to. I’d nearly died, maybe I still would, but in that moment, blind and broken and weightless, that scent, his scent, anchored me.

My chest tightened. Vulnerable didn’t suit me, but I couldn’t shake it. The smell was him, and he was safety. Somehow. Despite everything.

And now I was tired. Intensely, overwhelmingly tired. He gripped me. Securely. For a moment I could relax. Could breathe. I wanted to lie huddled in his arms, against his chest. And close my eyes. Just an hour of sleep. One tiny little hour. Then I’d be ready for them. Ready for whatever was next.

The anchor held only for a breath. For a few beats of my slowing heart. Then the weight of it, of him, of me in his arms, it snapped me back. I wasn’t vulnerable. That wasn’t me. That wasn’t how I was raised. It couldn’t, wouldn’t be me. Not here. Not with them circling like dogs, waiting for weakness.

I dragged air into my lungs, sharp and burning, forcing my spine to stiffen even as every muscle screamed.My wrists were on fire, shoulders raw, head swimming, but I forced the tremor out of my voice.

“Put me down,” I rasped, aiming for command, not plea. It came out rough, but it was mine.

I wouldn’t let them see me soft. Not even him.

Especially not him.

Weakness was a currency here. Show it once, they’d spend it until you were empty. That’s how men like them worked; they sniffed it out, circled it, tore at it like blood in the water.

The Kings hadn’t taught me that. Life had shown me that, long before the blindfold and the hook. Weakness wasn’t allowed. Not in the world I came from. Not in the life I’d been born into or what fate had shaped me into. It got you hurt. It got you ignored. It got you buried.

So, I clenched my jaw, swallowed the tremor in my gut, forced steel into my voice. Even if inside, I was nothing but splinters. They could see the blood, the bruises, the wreckage of me. But weakness? That I’d never let them take. Not even him.

“I can’t Jazz,” he answered in a deep, hoarse whisper. “Not right now.”

“Put me fucking down, Chase,” I hissed.

“Jazz,” he warned. “You need to trust me.”

I almost choked on my laugh.

“Trust you? You fucking kidnapped me, hung me on a fucking hook, and then when you stopped that smellyfuck trying to rape me, you hung me straight back up there again. Not sure you’re all that trustworthy.”

“When you two have finished fucking squabbling,” the Scottish voice from beside me grunted. “What now, Chase? You wanted Thrash out. He’s fucked off. But she’s probably too hot now to keep here.”