Rage

Chapter 4

Chapter Four

T he weeks become months, each sunrise bringing me closer to the reckoning I crave. Jaz is my dark guardian angel, guiding me through a metamorphosis both beautiful and terrifying.

My body heals, scars fading to silvery reminders of what was stolen from me. But it's my mind that undergoes the most profound transformation. Jaz teaches me to hone my pain into a weapon, to channel my rage into cold, calculated purpose.

We spend hours poring over information, piecing together the lives of my attackers like a macabre jigsaw puzzle. Tyler's drug habit proves easy to exploit--a whispered word in the right ear, a strategically placed bag of white powder. Within weeks, he's spiraling, paranoia etched into the dark circles beneath his bloodshot eyes.

Marcus's obsession with the freshman girls becomes our key to unraveling him. Anonymous tips, fabricated evidence, and suddenly he's facing a restraining order and whispers of "stalker" follow him across campus. His carefully cultivated image of the sensitive writer crumbles, revealing the predator beneath.

Ethan proves the most challenging, his golden-boy facade seemingly impenetrable. But even Teflon can't withstand the acid we drip onto his life. Rumors spread like wildfire, fanned by strategically leaked photos and whispered confessions. His teammates start to eye him warily, his adoring fans drifting away one by one.

Through it all, Jaz remains my anchor. He holds me when the nightmares come, his strong arms a fortress against the terrors that haunt me. His voice, low and soothing, talks me through the panic attacks that leave me gasping for air, convinced I'm back on that beach with sand in my mouth and cruel hands on my skin.

"Breathe, little Bee," he'll murmur, his fingers tracing soothing patterns on my back. "You're safe. I've got you. They can't hurt you anymore."

And slowly, painfully, I start to believe him. The flashbacks come less frequently, the panic attacks lose their paralyzing grip. In their place grows something new--a steely resolve, a hunger for justice that burns away the last vestiges of the girl I used to be.

Jaz teaches me self-defense, his hands guiding my body through forms and strikes. There's an intimacy to these sessions that goes beyond the physical. With every blocked punch, every perfectly executed throw, I reclaim a piece of myself that was stolen that night on the beach.

"Good," Jaz growls as I pin him to the mat, his eyes dark with pride and something else, something that sends a shiver down my spine. "You're getting stronger every day, little fighter."

Our training sessions grow more intense, the line between violence and intimacy blurring with each passing day. Jaz pushes me to my limits, his hands alternating between brutal strikes and gentle caresses. I learn to read the tension in his muscles, to anticipate his movements before he makes them.

One day, as we grapple on the mat, something shifts. I pin Jaz beneath me, my breath coming in ragged gasps. His eyes lock onto mine, dark with a hunger that has nothing to do with combat. For a moment, we're frozen, the air between us crackling with electricity.

"Good girl," Jaz growls, his voice low and rough. The praise sends a shiver through me, igniting something primal in my core.

I'm not sure who moves first. One moment we're staring at each other, chests heaving, and the next his lips are on mine. The kiss is brutal, all teeth and tongue and pent-up desire. I taste blood, unsure if it's his or mine, and find I don't care.

Jaz's hands roam my body, no longer gentle but demanding, possessive. I arch into his touch, craving the burn of his calloused fingers against my skin. He flips us over, pinning me beneath him, and I feel the hard length of him pressing against my thigh.

"Tell me to stop," he pants, his eyes wild with need and a hint of desperation. "If you don't want this, tell me now."

I answer by pulling him down for another kiss, pouring all my rage, pain and desire into it. Jaz groans, a sound that reverberates through my very bones. His hands make quick work of our clothes, leaving us bare and panting on the training mat.

There's nothing gentle about what follows. It's a clash of bodies, a battle for dominance that leaves us both bruised and gasping. As Jaz enters me, the world narrows to just this moment--the stretch and burn, the fullness, the exquisite pleasure-pain that shoots through my core. I cry out, my nails raking down his back, leaving angry red welts in their wake.

"That's it, little Bee," Jaz growls, his voice rough with desire. "Let me hear you."

He sets a punishing pace, each thrust driving me higher, closer to the edge of something I can't quite name. It's revenge and healing, punishment and absolution all at once. I meet him thrust for thrust, my body singing with sensations I'd thought lost to me forever. Jaz takes me hard and fast, his fingers digging into my hips hard enough to leave marks. I welcome the pain, relish in it, using it to ground myself in the present.

"Look at me," Jaz commands, one hand gripping my chin. "I want to see your eyes when you come undone."

I obey, locking my gaze with his. The intensity I see there–the raw need, the fierce protectiveness–pushes me over the edge. When I come, it's with a scream that's part pleasure, part release of all the pent-up emotions I've been carrying. Jaz follows soon after, his body shuddering against mine as he buries his face in the crook of my neck.

We lay there for a long moment, sweat cooling on our skin, neither of us willing to break the silence. Finally, Jaz props himself up on one elbow, his dark eyes searching mine.

"Are you okay?" he asks, a hint of vulnerability creeping into his voice.

I nod, surprised to find that I am. For the first time in months, I feel truly present in my own body. The constant undercurrent of fear and shame that's been my companion since that night on the beach has quieted, replaced by a sense of power and control.

"I'm more than okay," I tell him.

Jaz's eyes soften, a rare vulnerability flickering across his face. His hand comes up to cup my cheek, thumb brushing gently across my cheekbone. "You're incredible, little Bee," he murmurs, his voice rough with emotion. "So strong, so fierce."

I lean into his touch, savoring the warmth of his skin against mine. For a moment, we stay like that, suspended in a bubble of intimacy that feels both fragile and unbreakable.

But the real world intrudes, as it always does. A car horn blares outside, shattering the silence. Jaz tenses, his body coiling with sudden alertness. I feel the shift in him, the return of the hardened warrior.

"We should get cleaned up," he says, already moving to stand. "We have work to do."

I nod, pushing myself up from the mat. My body aches in a dozen places, a delicious soreness that reminds me I'm alive, I'm here, I'm fighting back. As I gather my scattered clothes, I catch Jaz watching me, his dark eyes unreadable.

"What?" I ask, suddenly self-conscious under his intense gaze.

A small smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. "Just admiring my handiwork," he says, gesturing to the constellation of bruises blooming across my skin. "You wear them well, little fighter."

Heat rises to my cheeks, a mix of embarrassment and pride. These marks are different from the ones that came before. These, I chose. These, I earned.

We shower separately, the sound of running water a poor substitute for the intimacy we just shared. When I emerge, skin pink from the heat and hair dripping, Jaz is already dressed and bent over his laptop.

"Come here," he says, not looking up from the screen. "I think I've found something."

I pad over, curiosity overriding any lingering awkwardness. Jaz's fingers fly across the keyboard, pulling up documents and social media profiles faster than I can process.

"Ethan," he says, his voice hard. "He's planning a party this weekend. Big one, out at his family's beach house."

My breath catches in my throat. "The same place where..."

Jaz nods, his jaw clenched tight. "The very same. Seems our golden boy likes to revisit the scene of his crimes."

A cold fury settles in my chest, icy tendrils wrapping around my heart. "What are you thinking?" I ask, though I already know the answer.

Jaz turns to me, his eyes glittering with dark promise. "I'm thinking it's time we crash a party, little Bee. What do you say? Ready to face your demons?"

Fear and anticipation war within me, but I push them both aside. I meet Jaz's gaze, steel in my voice as I reply, "Let's do it," I say, my voice steady despite the storm of emotions raging inside me. "It's time to make them pay."

Jaz's eyes darken with approval, a slow smile spreading across his face. "That's my girl," he murmurs, his hand coming to rest on the nape of my neck. The touch sends a shiver down my spine, a potent mix of comfort and excitement.

We spend the next few days in intense preparation. Jaz drills me on every aspect of our plan, his patience seemingly endless as he walks me through each step. We go over contingencies, escape routes, signals. By the time Friday night rolls around, I feel like I've memorized every grain of sand on that cursed beach.

As I stand before the mirror, applying the finishing touches to my makeup, I barely recognize the woman staring back at me. Gone is the soft, vulnerable girl from before. In her place stands someone harder, sharper. My blue eyes, once wide with innocence, now hold a predatory gleam that matches Jaz's. My hair hasn’t seen a hairdresser since the attack, so instead of the shortened bleached bob it's now back to its normal honey blonde, the waves falling down to my waist.

"You ready, little Bee?" Jaz asks, appearing in the doorway behind me. His eyes rake over my form, appreciation evident in his gaze.

I nod, smoothing down the front of my dress. It's black, form-fitting, with strategic cutouts that show just enough skin to be enticing. A far cry from the bright pinks and light colors I used to wear, from what I wore that fateful night. But then again, I'm not the same person anymore.

"Let's go hunt some monsters," I say, my voice low and dangerous.

The drive to the beach house is a journey through memory and shadow. Jaz's sleek black car purrs down the coastal highway, headlights cutting through the gathering dusk. The ocean stretches out beside us, an inky expanse that seems to swallow the fading light. I watch the waves crash against the shore, each one a heartbeat of anticipation.

"You okay?" Jaz asks, his eyes flicking between me and the road. His hand finds mine, fingers intertwining with a gentle squeeze.

I nod, not trusting my voice. The closer we get, the more vivid the memories become. I can almost taste the salt in the air, feel the sand between my toes. It's been exactly one year since that night, a fact that hasn't escaped either of us. There's a poetry to it, a symmetry that feels both terrible and right.

"Revenge is a dish best served cold," I murmur, more to myself than to Jaz.

He chuckles, a low sound that sends a shiver down my spine. "And we've let this one chill for a full year," he agrees. "It'll be positively glacial by now."

The metaphor should be comforting but instead, it makes me shiver. I think of the pain I've carried for the past year, the rage that's become my constant companion. It hasn't cooled; it's crystallized, sharpening into something hard and deadly.

As we round a bend in the road, the beach house comes into view. It's a sprawling structure of glass and wood. Lights blaze from every window, and even from here, I can hear the thump of bass. My stomach clenches, a mix of fear and anticipation roiling within me.

My breath catches in my throat as I spot the bonfire on the beach below. The flames dance in the darkness, casting long shadows across the sand. It's so similar to that night, yet everything has changed.

"Remember," Jaz says, his voice low and intense. "We're in control. Every step, every moment--it's all on our terms. You say the word, and we're out of there. No questions asked."

I nod, grateful for the reminder. I take a deep breath, centering myself. "I'm ready," I tell him, and I'm surprised to find that it's true.

We make our way down to the beach, the sand cool beneath our feet. A massive bonfire blazes some distance from the house, casting long shadows across the sand. Figures move around it, their silhouettes distorted by the flames. The scene is eerily familiar, like a nightmare come to life.

"Look," Jaz murmurs, nodding towards a group near the fire.

My breath catches in my throat. There they are—Tyler, Marcus, and Ethan. They're laughing, red cups in hand, looking for all the world like normal college guys enjoying a party.