Burn for Me (Chaotic Love)

8. Eight

Eight

8-26-2024

I don’t want to go home.

-Jasmine

This is it. I’m going to America.

I smooth my bun, ensuring it’s neat and free of flyaways. The sweet sound of the ship's whistle drifts through the air as I rush across the deck, heading for what I hope are the living quarters. Sharkie mentioned something about them being on the first level last night, but I’ve been unable to focus.

I should be concentrating on the mission; I should be preparing for every worst-case scenario. I shouldn’t read into Sam’s sudden changes in behavior as though they are the latest secrets from leaked private databases. Yet, here I am—a jumbled, confused, irritated, lost mess.

Peeking around the corner, I make sure the narrow metal corridor is clear before hurrying through. I’ll be trapped in this vessel for seven days, and there’s no logical way to avoid Sam. I hate it, but it’s only because I can’t understand what lies beneath his hard, cold exterior.

There’s no way I can ask him what’s on his mind, though; he’d expect me to do the same. I tilt my head into each open door, desperately trying to find my assigned room. Why can’t he be normal and say, ‘This is for show; I honestly can't stand you’?

Tide’s shoulder bumps into mine with an aggravated growl, and I return the noise, but it cuts off into a squeak as my back slams against the cool metal siding.

“Looks like you haven't been training enough on the 'always be aware of your surroundings' aspect.”

The faint bit of light that once illuminated my surroundings dims as I'm trapped between two large, ink-covered arms braced beside my head. Looking at Sam's features, I'm terrified. He's everywhere, constantly threatening the atmosphere with his presence, yet I can't pull away— I can't push him away. I’m officially convinced that I died at some point, but I wasn’t greeted with the pearly gates everyone talks about. Instead, I was sent to spend eternity running from the person I want to run to.

“I’ll remember that next time,” I say while pushing against his chest, which only earns a growl that vibrates through my hands. He’s like a concrete wall, refusing to budge an inch.

“What if there isn’t a next time? One slip-up can cost you your life.” Sam's low rumble of words goes unfocused as Sharkie passes by, acting as if the floor is the most exciting thing to look at. The door shuts behind her, and I roll my eyes. Thanks for the help, jerk.

“That sounds amazing. I can return to the warm comfort of the fiery pits of hell.”

“Do you have a throne down there? Do all your demons worship you at your feet?” His purr is both sexy and exasperating, making me shove him harder.

“Move, Sam.”

“That’s not going to work. Haven’t you learned that I love a good fight?” He chuckles without humor, pressing his body closer to mine until I can feel every rigid muscle I know lies beneath.

“No, I didn't. Then again, I don't know much about you now, do I?”

“The feeling is mutual. I told you something about me, so now it’s your turn.” He changes the subject, acting as if I can’t see past his manipulation to get the information I hold.

“I’m just due for a back rub. Do you want to come to my room and help me out?”

“You know that's not what I meant.” His voice drops, clearly irritated, and he sighs. “And I’m not doing that.”

“You didn't specify,” I say innocently, then kick his shin, causing him to stumble back a few steps. Spotting my nameplate neatly hanging from a door, I take the opportunity to throw my shoulder into his chest as I walk past.

I wish he would just give up. I’m not the type of princess that needs saving; I’m the type that lures knights in shining armor into the dragon's mouth.

“Jasmine.” There’s a deep rasp in his voice when he says my name–the one he uses when I’m pushing him too far–but it’s all I know how to do. Rolling my eyes, I reach for the door handle, but my wrist is suddenly caught.

Panic . That’s all I can feel from his touch.

I’m in trouble. It’s not the kind that has me running laps or prevents me from watching the sunset. It's the type of trouble that brings back overwhelming memories of moments when slim, bony fingers would jerk me into the nearest room when my father wasn’t looking.

I turn with the motion, and my open palm connects with his cheek. I’m already prepared to apologize, but my mouth clamps shut when his eyes meet mine.

"I'm not coming to your room with you because it's not safe, so stop acting like a spoiled child," he hisses. I expect him to jerk me close, but instead, his touch is gentle–coaxing and guiding my steps lightly until my shoes touch his. I'm too distracted by the red splotching on his jaw to react, but when his words sink in, my sympathy turns to irritation. Does he think my frustration is about him? I've been satisfying myself for years because no man can get close without him threatening their life.

Furrowing my brows, I scoff. If only he could understand that I’ve never been mad at him—it’s been me all along. It’s the daunting thought that I might have a chance if my closet wasn’t filled with the skeletons of my past. I feel the pressure of hiding every part of myself when I only want him to explore those pieces like he does everything else. The weight of it tightens my chest, making it hard to breathe.

“No fair, Daddy. I wanted a shiny new toy.” I pout despite my creeping anxiety, and he sucks in a sharp breath. If I don't show my weaknesses, then I’ll be okay. I can hide everything and finish this assignment without issue. Maybe when it’s done, he’ll give up on my past, and I can show him that this isn’t who I am.

His hand darts up, grasping my jaw so I can’t pull away.

“You're so goddamn infuriating, you know that?” He mutters through clenched teeth, flicking his gaze to my mouth, “I like being prepared. I love knowing what's coming, but you’re bloody fuckin’ with that. So save a few lives and tell me what I need to know.”

“There's nothing you need to know,” I challenge incoherently through gritted teeth. My nerve endings are firing, screaming for me to run away, but I refuse to move.

“This isn't some game; this is my sanity you're messing with.” I know he's probably saying something important, but I can’t focus on the words because his face is too close to mine. The woody scent clinging to his clothes tickles my nose—it’s calming, even when it feels threatening. Leaning forward, I try to hold onto the feeling he’s giving me, but he presses his fingers into my cheeks, making me acutely aware of the grooves of my teeth against the soft flesh as a warning.

Sometimes, I wish he’d snap and let go of the feelings he’s harboring toward me so I could finally know where I stand with him. He says this isn’t a game, and yet…

“If it's not a game, then stop treating my mind like some pawn on your board!” I snap.

A thump sounds somewhere down the hall, but neither of us turns our attention to it.

His head aligns with mine, and I can almost taste his toothpaste with the soft breaths that fall between his lips. As soon as I process the sound of my door opening, I'm shoved back into the space.

“Sam!” I yell, but he slams the door. Silence surrounds me, but even in the quiet, my thoughts remain jumbled.

Being near Sam feels like inching towards a fire in search of warmth, only to be burned by the heat. I shake my head, anxiety spiking in my chest, as I survey the barren room.

Sam and I come from two different worlds. He may claim he fights just for the sake of fighting, but it’s still for a greater purpose. On my side, though... I tug at the buttons on my uniform. It feels suffocating to be held together this way.

I don’t want order, my father’s idea of a ‘perfect’ lifestyle, or to remember that I almost accomplished everything I set out to do all those years ago. I don’t want to go home.

8-27-2024

It’s still early, but I had no choice but to get up when Sam knocked and insisted I follow him. Although I'm feeling irritable, getting some sleep has eased the tension in my spine, and the view over the setting is a nice distraction.

I bite my bottom lip to stifle a laugh that threatens to escape. The scene looks like something out of a movie featuring a romantic dinner on a dock. The only difference is that this is the budget version: a stained white cloth instead of a pristine tablecloth, a flare in the center instead of a candle, and metal plates instead of glass. I think I like this better than the experiences I've had in the past, though. I don’t have to smile brightly or put on a facade.

Sam sits down, running his hand back through his hair, disheveling the dirty blonde strands. Dark bags circle his eyes, and his brows are permanently creased. I can only guess he didn’t sleep as well as I did last night. I’m half tempted to ask, but since neither of us has said a word yet, I don’t know if I’m willing to be the one to break the silence first.

Thankfully, Moe walked onto the flight deck, grinning as he set down four plates filled with biscuits, sausage, omelets, strawberries, and toast.

“Thank you,” I say politely, even though I want to groan. I hate the military diet we're usually on, but I can’t deny that breakfast is always delicious. I carefully load my plate, refusing to let any pieces of food touch each other—unlike Sam, who haphazardly piles his food on his plate.

Ignoring the horrifying sight, I take a bite of my omelet. I expect it to be oversalted or dry, but it's fluffy and filled with savory flavors. I can't help but moan from the delicious taste, causing Sam to pause with his fork raised in front of his mouth before taking his bite.

Even when we argue, we relax around each other, but we’re sitting like children forced to eat broccoli. I guess it is kind of similar. Sam didn't specify that this was a training exercise, but he doesn't need to.

“Compliments to the chef. This is amazing,” I mutter, though the words feel dry in my mouth.

“Yeah, he did alright, I guess.”

My brows furrow as I study him. “ She . We brought Jessie.”

“Right. Anyway, we’re getting to know each other. We've proven time and time again that we know nothing, so…”

I scoff. I doubt we will be questioned about each other's birthdays or our favorite foods at a ball.

“Then tell me something.” I challenge, placing a strawberry in my mouth.

“Our last name is Morana.”

“That's not something about you .”

“My birthday is November first, nineteen eighty-six. I already know yours is January twenty-fifth, two thousand. Better?” He grits out, and my chewing slows as a mischievous smile spreads across my face.

“Old man,” I mutter, taking another bite of sausage. He chuckles, a real laugh. It’s the kind he usually reserves for Tide or Moe, but this one is for me . I wish I could capture that sound and lock it in a box to play over and over. I clear my throat and look around the empty landing pad.

Why was I mad at him again?

“Just give me the easy stuff. If you want answers, you have to give them too.” I grin as he uses the statement I like to use when avoiding something that’ll make me too vulnerable. I guess I can handle the easy stuff. I set down my fork and lean my elbows on the table to hold his gaze.

“My favorite holiday is Christmas. I love the smell of spearmint and freshly cut grass. I don’t know how to cook; I never needed to learn since we had chefs. I used to like cleaning, but it always irritated the maids. Now, I like to create messes. It makes me feel like I’m in control of something.” I rapid-fire as many useless facts as possible, and he responds just as quickly.

“I don't have a favorite holiday. I can tolerate the smell of flowers, but it has to be subtle. I learned how to cook when I was young. I hated cleaning, but when I joined Chaos, it became a necessary habit.”

I want to pull out my notepad. Although this isn't the usual information I'd write down, I have an overwhelming urge to memorize it all.

“I hate the rain; it frizzes my hair. I pay attention to details; it's a learned behavior. I’m terrified of fire.” I'm walking a fine line here. It feels like I'm revealing too much, but I can't stop when he’s focused on my mouth, as if memorizing the words and how my lips form them.

“I hate the sunshine because it symbolizes everything that doesn’t exist. Most of my behaviors are learned—being aware of my surroundings, memorizing schedules, and needing things to be organized…” He pauses as if just now processing my last sentence. “I’m scared of losing control.”

“Why?” I hardly notice how I lean closer, and his eyes grow dark until they’re almost black.

“Why are you scared of fire?” He fires back, and just like that, my trance shatters. I sit back in my seat and continue to eat in silence. He makes a low, agitated noise.

“You get to have the day to adjust. So rest, bathe, explore—whatever you want. You don't have to report to anyone,” Sam murmurs, flicking his fork across his plate.

I place my napkin on my plate and keep my gaze averted as I say, “Please tell Tide and Sharkie thank you. The breakfast was nice, and it worked out well. They had the right idea with it.”

He doesn't reply, so I stand and stare at him momentarily, taking in how the sun highlights the ash in his hair and how his tattoos peek out from under his white shirt, almost bleeding through the fabric along his shoulders. I don't want this moment to be completely ruined, so I can’t help but ask, “Moe said you're making my mask for the ball. Why?”

He leans back, interlacing his fingers on his abdomen, drawing my attention to the half skull inked on his hand.

“It was mandatory for Chaos soldiers to wear masks during the war and missions to protect our identities. I got used to creating them,” he replies calmly, but the slight twitch in his jaw suggests otherwise.

“Can I make yours?”

“I'll just wear a black balaclava like I used to.”

“Please?” I whisper, hoping to convince him to let me do something.

“I'll drop it off with you tonight, little devil.”