Page 45 of Jazz
Then I smelled him again. Spice and wood. Please, Chase. Please.
“Fuck,” someone cried out. “Fuck.”
Fear. Abstract terror. I could hear it in those words. The type that makes your stomach drop to your very toes. I could feel it too, like it sucked me in even though it wasn’t my fear.
“Ah fuck!”
“You. Get him to a fucking hospital.”
Chase’s voice. Just hearing it, even the anger that laced the deep rumble of his words, that was enough to soothe the drilling of my heart.
“The…the girl.” Someone stammered from above me.
“She’s fucking mine. Now get the fuck out of here before I stick one in your gut too.”
My heart still pounded in my chest, but at least now it didn’t feel like it might actually break through my ribs. The smoke made my eyes water under the blindfold. The ropes rubbed raw at my wrists. Somewhere in the room someone groaned, low and broken, and then a boot hit the floor beside me. Heavy. Slow.
The rope tugged against my ankle, and then popped, my legs springing free, no longer pinned. My breath hitched. I couldn’t tell if it was him or one of them.
Another step. Then silence.
That was worse. Silence meant choice. And I didn’t know what his was.
I stayed still, every muscle locked, heart beating hard in my chest again, loud enough I thought he could hear it. His smell lingered, teasing. Clean and sharp with that mix of mint and spice, wrapping itself around the fear until I didn’t know what I was feeling anymore.
Something brushed the back of my hands, my skin crawling, or maybe it ignited. I couldn’t tell, the aching numbness making them senseless. The ropes popped again. My arms sprung free and a sudden burn chased any numbness away. I yelped. Bottled fear and pain escaping in one noise.
“Shit, Jazz,” Chase’s words were hot on my back, the tiniest wisp of breath stinging my damaged skin.
The bed dipped, and I didn’t move. Lying with my arms and legs spread out like I was still tied. Too frightened, too exhausted to do anything.
His arm scooped under mine, tilting me. I felt the coldness against my temple. Metal. A blade. It picked its way carefully under the fabric, tugging and then the black surrounding my eyes loosened. Rough fingers teased at the edges, lifting it carefully until it stuck.
“This might hurt,” his voice was low, velvety, and my heart beat stronger again. “I think it’s stuck on some old blood.”
The material tugged and I winced, squeezing my eyes shut.
“Shit,” Chase said again. “I’m just going to rip it off like a plaster.”
I nodded, drawing a breath. I was ready. It couldn’t hurt like…fuck. The material pinched sharply, heat rushing to a spot on my left eyebrow and then the prickle of warm liquid.
“Sorry, Jazz. I know that hurt.” His voice was oddly soothing, like a deep lullaby, encouraging me to let that exhaustion win. “You know you have your eyes closed still? You can open them now. The blindfold’s off.”
I knew it was off. But I was tired, and afraid. Afraid of whether I could see after days trapped in the dark. Scared of what carnage lay around me. And frightened to look at Chase. At the man who had rescued my dignity from his vice president. Who’d tenderly seen to my wounds. Who had kissed me in the dark. Whose voice had soothed and excited me. Whose hands had fed me. I didn’t want to look.
But I opened my eyes anyway.
Light hit like a weapon. It stabbed, sharp and white, burning against skin that had forgotten brightness. My lashes fluttered, useless, my eyes dry, struggling to remember what they were meant to do. The world came back in shapes first. Blurred smudges and ghosts that shifted when I blinked. Grey. Black. A streak of something pale that might have been his arm. Everything bled at the edges, hazy and uncertain, like the dark had tattooed itself on the inside of my eyes.
I blinked again. Harder. The light pulsed and swam until, slowly, outlines began to sharpen. The room around me didn’t rush back all at once, it crept in. Crumbling paint. Dust. A patch of ceiling stained with damp. My eyes watered, tears spilling unbidden as they tried to make sense of it.
Slowly shapes sharpened, colour bleeding into them. A black silhouette crouched close, that impossible combination of strength and stillness that could only be Chase. The shadow of his jaw caught the light first, the cut of it familiar even despite I’d never seen him before.
“Hey,” he said softly, that gravel-smooth rumble finding me through the blur. The sound anchored me more than anything else. “Careful Tiger. Don’t push it.”
I swallowed hard, the taste of smoke still bitter on my tongue, catching on the back of my throat. The air smelled of fire retardant and sweat, iron and something faintly sweet that I couldn’t name. Chase. His aftershave, dark spice and engine oil, pulling through the haze.
Everything ached. My wrists burned where the ropes had rubbed raw, my skin tight and stinging. But what caught me worst was the spinning. The world tilted slightly, refusing to hold still. Light smeared every time I moved my head.