Chapter Fifteen
I’d felt the pop of the ties. I counted in fractions as my wrists loosened, my arms moving away from each other. Weightless. Falling. Falling from a height I had no idea of. I was blind, and flailing. And then it went darker than ever before.
Around me there was a drone of voices. Mutterings growing louder. Getting closer. And a low steady beat. Someone’s heart, but I didn’t know whether I was listening to it or feeling it. My head was a thrum of confusion, of time lost. Of pain. And fear and panic and uncertainty.
But I could smell him. It was strong. Forced against my nose.
Even before thought came back, I knew him.
That smell. Pine needles crushed sharp, resin thick and green, that faint chemical bite underneath.
Chase. Always Chase. It hit harder now, pressed close, wrapping around me until it filled my lungs and drowned out the stink of rust and sweat and blood.
I hated how it steadied me. Hated how familiar it was, how my body clung to it even when my mind screamed not to. I’d nearly died, maybe I still would, but in that moment, blind and broken and weightless, that scent, his scent, anchored me.
My chest tightened. Vulnerable didn’t suit me, but I couldn’t shake it. The smell was him, and he was safety. Somehow. Despite everything.
And now I was tired. Intensely, overwhelmingly tired. He gripped me. Securely. For a moment I could relax. Could breathe. I wanted to lie huddled in his arms, against his chest. And close my eyes. Just an hour of sleep. One tiny little hour. Then I’d be ready for them. Ready for whatever was next.
The anchor held only for a breath. For a few beats of my slowing heart.
Then the weight of it, of him, of me in his arms, it snapped me back.
I wasn’t vulnerable. That wasn’t me. That wasn’t how I was raised.
It couldn’t, wouldn’t be me. Not here. Not with them circling like dogs, waiting for weakness.
I dragged air into my lungs, sharp and burning, forcing my spine to stiffen even as every muscle screamed. My wrists were on fire, shoulders raw, head swimming, but I forced the tremor out of my voice.
“Put me down,” I rasped, aiming for command, not plea. It came out rough, but it was mine.
I wouldn’t let them see me soft. Not even him.
Especially not him.
Weakness was a currency here. Show it once, they’d spend it until you were empty. That’s how men like them worked; they sniffed it out, circled it, tore at it like blood in the water.
The Kings hadn’t taught me that. Life had shown me that, long before the blindfold and the hook. Weakness wasn’t allowed. Not in the world I came from. Not in the life I’d been born into or what fate had shaped me into. It got you hurt. It got you ignored. It got you buried.
So, I clenched my jaw, swallowed the tremor in my gut, forced steel into my voice. Even if inside, I was nothing but splinters. They could see the blood, the bruises, the wreckage of me. But weakness? That I’d never let them take. Not even him.
“I can’t Jazz,” he answered in a deep, hoarse whisper. “Not right now.”
“Put me fucking down, Chase,” I hissed.
“Jazz,” he warned. “You need to trust me.”
I almost choked on my laugh.
“Trust you? You fucking kidnapped me, hung me on a fucking hook, and then when you stopped that smelly fuck trying to rape me, you hung me straight back up there again. Not sure you’re all that trustworthy.”
“When you two have finished fucking squabbling,” the Scottish voice from beside me grunted. “What now, Chase? You wanted Thrash out. He’s fucked off. But she’s probably too hot now to keep here.”
“Fuck’s sake,” Chase hissed, the words vibrating from his chest through me. “She’s not going back up there.”
“Then what?”
There was a pause. I could almost feel his brain turning. I should fight now. Take an opportunity at the faintest sign of hesitation. Kick him in the balls and run. Blindfolded. Probably straight into the next fucking Rat.
“Back room,” he said eventually.
Nobody else answered. They were probably nodding. Or looking at him as if he was an idiot.
And now I was moving, still clutched against him, but the very faintest of air brushed my cheek, moving through it.
Now it was time to struggle. Because I didn’t know what ‘back room’ was, and I didn’t fancy finding out. Summoning all my strength, I wriggled and convulsed. Chase’s grip on me moved. Shocked at first and then tightening, clutching me harder to his chest.
“Fucking stop it,” he grunted, his arms tightening around me further.
I grabbed at his bicep, trying to pull him off me.
Strong, firm arms. The bulge of muscle under the soft fabric of his jumper contradicting, my fingers lingering over the definition just a little too long.
And now I pushed against his chest, trying to break free, forcing the heel of my hand into the hardness of the pecs I could feel underneath.
How big was he? He carried me with ease, unfazed to my squirming, thrashing limbs.
I kicked out my legs, the dull thumping of pain in my left thigh a reminder of my frailty.
“Fuck’s sake,” he grumbled again, lowering me quickly to the floor.
Then, dipping his shoulder, he ducked, pushing me against him, flipping me upwards.
And now I was hanging again, but this time upside down, dangling over his back.
He pinned my legs tight, stopping me from kicking him, the top half of my body swaying as he walked.
I tried to prop myself up, to push against his back, but my arms were still numb.
Blood rushed hot to my head, the blindfold pressing tighter across my eyes as I dangled.
Through my stomach, I could feel him. Heat and bulk, every muscle shifting like a machine as he walked.
My cheek brushed the fabric of his jumper, the softness electrifying my nerve endings, smoothing against skin raw from the cold.
I thrashed or tried to. My arms were useless, pins and needles shooting fire through them, my legs clamped fast in his grip.
Every jerk, every wriggle only seemed to lock me tighter against him, ribs pressed to the hard flex of his body.
His scent poured over me, suffocating me in smoky spruce. Too sharp. Too Chase.
My heart hammered against my ribs, equal parts fury to panic.
I should’ve kept fighting, should’ve found some way to make it hurt, but my strength bled out with every useless kick.
All that was left was the humiliating awareness of him, the steady rise and fall of his chest under me, the brutal ease with which he carried me like I weighed nothing.
Fear curled in my stomach, sharp and cold, but tangled up with it was something hotter, creeping through my nerves in a way I couldn’t smother.
I ground my teeth, swallowing it back. Whatever this was, back room, hook, chains, I couldn’t afford distraction.
I had to find that fight again. And this fucking brain had to stop thinking up ways to fucking submit to him. Because that was never going to happen.
Footsteps echoed. And I counted. There was more than just Chase.
The Scottish president. Someone else. Maybe two others.
Not Skinny. I couldn’t smell him, even with the smothering notes of Chase’s aftershave; the intrusive stale smell of cigarettes wasn’t piercing the scent like it had done earlier.
A door creaked, the screech harsh but not quite echoing, the sounds closer, not lost in the hugeness of where they had me hanging.
And then I was falling. Again. My stomach lurching, that same weightlessness from minutes before. Panic shot through me, white and raw, blinding for an instant. My body bracing for concrete, for bone-shattering impact. I gasped, waiting for the smash of it.
My back hit something soft. A dull whump, not a crack. Air rushed from my lungs, but nothing broke, the frightened gasp letting more out than the impact. The surface dipped under me, springs groaning, the faint stink of sweat and mildew rising. A mattress.
I lay frozen, every nerve still screaming like I was plummeting.
My body didn’t believe it was safe, not yet.
The ghost of the hook tugged at my wrists, phantom pain searing through torn flesh where the ties had bitten deep.
Real pain burning in the same place from flesh almost flayed from bone.
My shoulders still spasmed with the memory of being wrenched higher and higher, the brutal snap, the world rushing up to meet me.
But my hands. My hands were free. I blinked uselessly into the blindfold, flexing stiff fingers, half expecting the bite of plastic to cut me again. Nothing. Just skin. Skin and blood and freedom that I didn’t trust.
My chest heaved, pulling in air thick with dust and leather and faint traces of him.
I wanted to move, to fight, but all I could do was lie there, caught between the memory of the fall and the mattress beneath me holding me up.
Of lying on my back, not hanging from my shoulders.
Exhaustion swarmed at the periphery. Unconsciousness ready to take me.
I flexed my fingers again, slow and cautious, waiting for the sharp bite of plastic, for the yank of the hook above my head. Nothing. Just raw skin and the stickiness of blood drying over torn wrists.
I turned my hands, palms up, palms down, the smallest movement like testing the edges of a cage.
Still free. I pushed my elbow into the mattress, the springs whining under the weight.
Muscles screamed, shoulders locked in protest, but I forced myself up an inch, two.
The blindfold stayed dark, stealing every bearing, but I didn’t try to rip off. Not yet.
The stink of mildew and dust clung to the mattress, but underneath it, faint and stubborn, was him. His aftershave soaked into the fabric where he’d dropped me. That grounded me more than I wanted. More than I could admit.
“So what now?” The President’s voice broke through my tiredness, and I jolted, my body firing back up to fight mode.
“Leave her here.” Chase’s voice rumbled in the dark.
“We got anything to tie her up with?”
My teeth pulled on my lip. My wrists and shoulders burned at the thought.