Burn for Me (Chaotic Love)

7. Seven

Seven

8-25-2024

Doesn’t she realize what I am? What I'm capable of?

-Sam

For once, I regret an action I took. My laps lasted until the sky turned dark, and the soldiers were dismissed from the training grounds for their nightly meal. I didn’t even get my shower at seven-thirty, which fucked with my sleep schedule.

I look over the various monitors, trying not to lose focus and get caught in my sleep-deprived thoughts–counting as each soldier files into the barracks and their private quarters while scanning for a glimpse of soft blonde hair to come into view. I’ve been avoiding her since yesterday—I needed time to recompose myself—but I've kept a close eye on the monitors. It used to be enough to see her pixelated form, but I’m slowly realizing I’ve gone too far because now it doesn’t satisfy this need to be close to her, smell her, or feel her.

Right on schedule, Jasmine passes by in the corner of the screen, with Sharkie trailing closely behind. I tilt my head, trying to release the tension that has built up throughout the day.

Moe had the bright idea of helping Jasmine learn how to properly latch a hanging harness while we did our separate drills, per Caspian's orders, since I lost my exercise rights with her for the day as punishment. Moe's hands were too close to her, and Jasmine was smiling too brightly. I couldn't do anything but watch helplessly, glaring as I thought about how good he would be for her.

But she doesn't need good .

She needs something dark so her flames can flicker through and highlight all her perfections.

She needs me.

I exhale, running my hand through my hair and tugging at the strands as I try to locate her body on the screen. Once I spot her waltzing directly towards the monitor room, just like she does anytime I avoid her, I switch the display to expand a nearly completely blacked-out file, except for a picture and date of birth.

I want to prepare myself for what I might have to destroy if the time ever comes, but there’s nothing substantial. I could easily interrogate her—forcing the information out through methods that starkly contrast the subtle questioning I’ve been doing—but I want her to do it willingly.

I want her to trust me.

I'm not the type of man who can hand his heart to a woman–I don’t have one–but I am the type of monster that'll gladly drag bodies into the pits of hell just so my little devil can pick the heart she wants.

I just need something to work with. If I could get her to tell me a fear, a dream, or even entice a flashback from her past, it would help.

“Bloody brilliant Sam.” Carlisle booms as I drag the leader of the Deserts faction behind me. Everything hurts, but I can't focus on that when the adrenalin of burning building after building to get to him still rushes through my veins. His army fought a hell of a fight, but they weren’t strong enough. Their poor decision to position themselves in the middle of civilization didn’t help either. The only way to get around was straight through, which caused quite a commotion. I suppose soldiers raiding houses to drag civilians into safe zones isn’t part of most people’s daily lives. At least that solves another problem as well.

We don't have to hide the chaos we create anymore.

“Where would you like him, Sir?” I brush my thumb to the corner of my bloodied mouth. Terrell groans, and I jerk the collar of his shirt to make him shut up from the consistent incoherent rambling. I can’t stand it; it's like nails on a chalkboard, making my skin crawl and teeth grind.

Carlisle waves a hand. “He’s useless to us unless he plans to form an allegiance.”

I pull my pistol from the holster at the same time I toss Terrell to Carlisle's feet.

“Did he at least give you the information you needed on your cousin… oh what was his name?” Carlisle draws, and my shoulders stiffen from having to refrain from shooting the son of a bitch.

“Brady. No, he is still untraceable.”

“Hate to say it, son, but with your family's background, he's probably dead by now or off someplace recovering,” He pauses, tapping his head “mentally.”

Carlisle catches my narrowed gaze, and his jaw tightens in response, prompting me to relax my expression. I know he’s not dead, and he would never accept that kind of help. He is my only remaining blood relative, so it feels instinctive to believe that he’s still alive—he’s just hiding. He’s somewhere he thinks my uncle can't find him–he’s trying to protect himself–but I can offer him sanctuary if I can just locate him.

“I'm sure we can locate your uncle maybe–” Carlisle nods, cutting off Caspian's words so I look back to the trembling, whining, pathetic mess at my feet, “Go on and feed them to the sharks, Sam. You know what? Everyone in our line of work needs a callsign. What do you think? I was thinking something like Reaper.”

I cut off Carlisle's rambling with the sound of a bullet cracking through Terrel's skull and stare at the blood pooling around my feet on the beautiful marble floor, but it quickly morphs into dirty, cracked concrete.

My breathing starts to shallow as one body turns to two, then three, until there are eight lying lifelessly around. The once bright room turns dark with red and blue beams of light flashing off the walls, and the smell of gunpowder turns to something more musky, but just as quickly as that smell comes, it fades into Jasmines.

My head jolts toward the creaking sound of the door opening, pulling me from my thoughts. I take a deep breath as I flex my hands above the keyboard, trying to relieve the tension in my shoulders. I must have gotten lost in another hallucination, and I find myself staring at more than just Jasmine's intake papers. I glance at a few separate screens before closing out of Brady's files. It's still the same—he hasn’t aged or left any mark on the world, but I'm positive he's still out there somewhere. The trauma we endured together makes me feel like I owe him something, but I can’t repay every moment he saved my arse from my uncle or one of his sodden friends if I can’t locate him.

It’s uncomfortably quiet, and Jasmine’s footsteps have yet to come close, so I know she's trying to read my mood even though I never physically give her much to go on.

“You did pretty well in sparring today…” The words get caught in my throat as I try to ease her in. Images of how she straddled Moe to pin him make my muscles tense further, so I clear my throat before continuing, “But that's because you didn’t have much of a challenge.”

“Don’t sound so surprised that I’m actually okay at my job. Besides,” she murmurs in a voice that my throat craves to swallow. It’s gentle, sweet, and not the feigned tone she puts on for show; it's the one she reserves for the moments when it’s just us. The dimming light creates a silhouette around her body as she steps beside me and flips the collar of my uniform back down into position.

“I let you win.” She finishes quietly.

Her fingers brush against the fabric once more before she crosses her arms over her chest and leans back against the desk. She only closes herself off when there’s too much on her mind. Most of the time, she sits quietly on the desk, acting as if I can’t feel her watching me, but this time is different—so different that I turn my full attention away from the screens to focus on her.

“What’s wrong with you?” The words come out harsher than I intended.

“Why do I have to go?” She speaks so quickly that her words nearly overlap with mine. Why does it matter?

“For one, it’s your assignment,” I say slowly, tilting my head back to get a better look at her. “Two… I’ll be going too, and I can’t watch you if I’m across the sea. Now, can I?”

“I don’t need you to watch me. I’m not a child.” She says lightheartedly, but it does little to conceal the inner turmoil she’s trying to hide.

“You had a serial killer's hands on you the other day, and you didn’t pull away. Are you sure you don’t need someone to watch you?”

She rolls her eyes, and I take the chance to scan her body, from her slim torso to her curvy hips and thighs. She’s dressed in khakis with an olive green T-shirt tucked in, her damp hair pulled back in a bun from her shower.

“I could’ve handled it.” Her confidence prompts me to raise an eyebrow as she tilts her chin defiantly.

“I know,” I reply, watching her expression shift from guarded to irritated.

“Stop acting like I’m incompetent. I’m—wait.” She looks back at a monitor, caught off guard by my compliment.

“Don’t be like that, little devil,” I say, trailing my fingers up her calf. A touch won’t hurt; it might even calm these relentless visions.

“Pouting isn't a good look on you.” I deadpan.

I don't mean it. She looks fucking gorgeous with her bottom lip slightly out and lines creasing between her brows, but I have to squash this feeling before it starts rising again.

She scoffs while leaning forward, bracing one hand on my seat and pulling my dog tags between her fingers in the other. I love it when she's flirting with me like I've seen her do others… When I have all her attention.

“I have a killer's hands on me right now. Should I pull away?” she asks innocently, and I wrap my hand around the back of her knee to ensure she doesn’t move.

“You have your husband's hands on you.” I flick my gaze to her lips; how naturally red they are is mesmerizing.

“ Fake husband.” she corrects me, her tone sharper than I expected.

There it fucking is again. Why does she always have to be so bloody irritating? It feels like she’s begging me to show her how fake this marriage is.

I could throw her into my lap right now and make her ride my cock until she comes hard enough that the only word she knows is ‘yours.’

“You need to back away.” My voice drops, halting my thoughts before they spiral into a territory I don't want to explore yet, but I still don’t loosen my grip.

“You won’t hurt me,” she whispers, leaning in so that her lips almost touch mine.

I want to hurt her, though, in so many ways that she'll be thanking me for the pain–I want her to know just how good death can feel before I breathe life back into her.

I can't.

I can only push her away and make her hate me, so I never know how it feels to be loved by her and then go again.

“Like you said, it's fake, so don’t get too confident about that statement.”

She pauses and lets out a harsh breath that brushes against my mouth, strong enough that I can taste her toothpaste. Her gorgeous golden eyes dart between mine as if trying to read the thoughts swirling in my head. Good luck with that. If I can’t know her like I know every other soldier on this base, she isn’t getting close to understanding me.

“Screw you,” she snaps, pulling back and dropping my dog tags, prompting me to release her. It’s a relief but doesn’t ease my heart rate; if anything, it makes it beat harder against my ribs.

“Before you go, I need to know if I should be prepared for anything when we arrive.” I focus on pulling up files from military bases, police records, and governmental reports on high society members.

“Isn’t our ridiculous training enough?”

I scoff, running my hand over the stubble on my jaw, “I’m not asking about that, Jasmine. Will you be compromised there? Is there anything else I should prepare–”

“You're not God, so stop acting like it.”

I grab her wrist, stopping her as she tries to storm off. God damn it, I wish she'd just understand –I can't do this with her.

“You're right. I'm not God; I'm death walking in the flesh. So tell me, will I be putting a red x on someone's chest over there? Are you going to be pulling the bodies I bury down to hell?” I bite out, tightening my grip, but she pulls from my grasp and takes off through the door, leaving only her scent to mingle in the space.

I feel like I'm suffocating below dirt and can't claw my way out fast enough.

Doesn’t she realize what I am? What I'm capable of?

I stand, and the chair topples over from the force.

I’m trying my hardest here, but I’m about ten seconds from saying fuck my pathetic attempt at having morals and ruining her like I’ve always wanted to. I push my hand through my hair, pulling the strands with an aggravated growl. If she's already destroyed, what use is she to whatever she’s running from? Sounds like a bloody good plan to me.

“Hey, uh—” My head snaps towards the quiet voice. Moe stands frozen in the doorway, flicking his gaze between the chair and my hand, which I let drop to my side as I narrow my eyes at him.

It's not his fault. It’s not his fault.

Those words play through my mind like a mantra, attempting to calm my temper before I unleash it on the wrong person.

“Just thought I’d… well—let you know we leave tomorrow.”

I wave my hand dismissively. I don’t care. I’m losing my mind in the one place where I should be able to maintain my composure, and I don’t think being trapped in a fucking metal bin will help matters much.

“Speak up. You’re a leader. Your tone should command attention.” I huff.

“Yes, sir. There's officially no more Depth or Bay. We’re now Seaborn. Do well to inform the others.” Moe’s voice comes out stronger, and I mentally curse myself. He’s doing his best to be seen as an adult. Today, he succeeded; when I saw his hands on her, I didn’t question his intentions for a second. I didn't see the little boy who used to run through the halls to hide from his brother; I saw a man.

A threat.

I nod, trying to absorb the information, but I keep my focus away from him because, honestly, I feel like I'm being thrown into the fire, and all I can think about is the pain.

“Did Caspian find a way for me to get a signal while we’re on the boat?”

I catch Moe grinning out of the corner of my eye.

“I set up a ship roaming network like you showed me,” he says proudly.

“Thanks,” I reply, turning my back to him.

Now, I have a few days to figure out what awaits her. If I can get a lead, then–

“Come with me to dinner? A good meal before we leave might help you out a bit.”

I furrow my brows and glance at him before rolling my eyes. He’s been so obsessed with that fucking shop up the street ever since I took him there a few years ago. I guess getting out of this small room might help ease my mind. I’m sure my superiors are prepared for their problem, but for once in my life, I’m not prepared for mine.

I pick up the chair and slide it into place as he mutters, “Just don’t throw a damn temper tantrum and send the plates flying. I don’t want to get kicked out.”