Page 27 of Jazz
Sliding my legs on top of her, I covered her completely. And now I hooked my toes under her ankles and pulled them apart. Her legs were strong, fighting me with every inch of effort I put in.
“Howay, man!” I shouted. “Get this fucking leg!”
And suddenly she was quieter. One leg anchored to the frame, leather creaking under the blue rope as she jerked and fought against it, hissing through her teeth when it didn’t give.
Her fight lost some heart. Not gone, just dulled, like she knew the game had shifted. I felt the change in her body under mine, still taut with rage, but the edge blunted, movements tighter, more controlled. Like she was saving the fight for later.
I took a chance. Grabbed for her wrists, raw and slick with blood, her hands scrabbled at the sheets like claws. She bucked beneath me, wild enough that for a second I almost lost my grip. I ducked low, chest pressing hers again, my weight grinding her into the filthy mattress. Her breath came fast against my neck, hot and sharp and too fucking close.
“Hold still,” I muttered, though I knew she wouldn’t.
I wrenched her arms high, muscles straining, dragging her wrists up to the headboard. She spat curses, her head jerking from side to side. I pinned her down harder, the fight in her buzzing through me like live current.
Behind me, my brothers stood watching. Silent. Useless. Shadows. Voyeurs. Enjoying watching her fight. Thrilled when she lost. My gut twisted hot with the knowledge of it, butmy hands didn’t falter. Rope scratched, pulled tight, her wrists bound again, and I felt the betrayal in my chest, heavier than the weight of her under me.
If I could have seen her eyes, I would have been sure she’d scrunched them shut. Her face moved, muscles tightening, a bob in her throat. Knowing she was defeated but too arrogant to accept it.
Her body went still. Any other time, I would have smiled. Enjoyed the feel of her submission under me. But not now. Not here.
I wanted to tell her it would be ok. That she would be ok. But I was lying.
That knot again. Winding tighter. Twisting and yanking. Just as I had done to her arms.
“You done, Chase?” Dougal grumbled, a hint of a chuckle in his words.
“Aye, she’s good and tight.”
His lips pulled into a smirk as I turned, dismounting from where I’d been sitting on her.
“Guess Grim’ll be the first to find out, huh?” The Scottish drone elicited a chorus of laughs.
“Or we can just ask Thrash,” that useless fucker of a Rat standing behind me quipped.
I should have punched him. Any other time I would have. But I could already see that Dougal was scrutinizing me. His humour veiled his curiosity, but we both knew he was suspicious. And I needed to move that suspicion away;otherwise, no one would come out of this in one piece. It didn’t matter that I was the enforcer.
The brothers watching darted when I glared, retreating through the doorway. I turned back one more time to where she was tied now to a dirty single bed. It had to be better than hanging from the hook. Jazz was still. No longer fighting. Realising there was no escape. But I wasn’t stupid enough to think that she’d given in to it. I shut the door behind me, turning the lock for added security, and slid the key into my pocket.
No one else had a key to this room. Just me. So, at least for now, she was safe.
As the rest retreated, Dougal caught my arm.
“You need to stay away from her,” his voice was low, even if it was only us in the corridor.
“Not exactly hanging around her, Dougal. She’s been dangling from the middle of my warehouse for days.”
“This lot,” he turned slightly, pushing his thumb over his shoulder at them. “They look at her like they can’t wait to get into her. Like hungry dogs waiting for the order.”
“You look at her like something else, Chase. Don’t let that get in the way of why she’s here. That won’t end well for you.”
Dougal didn’t need to say anything else. I heard it loud and clear. A warning. A reminder of who and what I was and who owned me.
Chapter Seventeen
The mattress smelled of dirt and grime, and I still felt Chase’s weight over the top of me. Pulling my legs apart, someone else secured the ties as he held me down. Firm hands over my wrists. And now these were tied to the headboard, metal warming as it leached the heat from my hands. But anything was better than hanging right now, even if the smells flooding my senses, creating noise in my brain, were desperately trying to convince me what had happened on this mattress before me.
I could smell a hint of it. Death. Rot. I knew exactly what it was. But for now, I was too tired. Way too tired. My body ached. Bruises on bruises. My stomach rumbling and my mouth dry. Dried blood scratching and pulling at my face every time I moved or flinched. My body as dirty and battered as this old mattress.
It was soft, though. Softer than the hook. My brain screamed at me to move, to fight, to test the ties until my wrists split wider, but my body wouldn’t listen anymore. Every muscle burned, every joint locked tight, my arms and shoulders on fire. The air felt heavy, dragging me down with every breath.