Chapter Twenty Four
The air changed first. The thick chemical sting of ink and blood split open by something new. Sharp. Familiar.
Someone shouted. Then another. Voices overlapping, panicked, colliding with each other.
The weight on my back shifted. One of them let go.
For half a second, I thought maybe it was over, that they’d finished scraping that rat into my skin.
But then the pressure returned harder, a hand pressing down on my shoulder, pinning me into the filthy mattress.
I tasted rust and dust; the stink of sweat soaked into the foam.
My arms ached where the ropes bit into them, the rough burn of it cutting deeper every time I twisted or tensed.
Pain everywhere. In my wrists, in my ankles, my limbs like lumps of lead.
But worse in my back. The skin was scratched raw.
There’d been no care taken, no rest, just the punishment of the tattoo gun over and over like it was flaying the skin right off my back.
The hiss grew louder. Closer. A shout. Skinny.
“Knew you were a fucking traitor….”
A grunt and a yell. Then a thud. My stomach twisted, the sound of boots moving fast, hitting walls, furniture. The vibration ran through the bedframe into my ribs. I could hear my own breath, short and sharp, the blindfold glued to my face, wet with sweat and tears.
And then, that smell again. Mint. Clean.
A trace of warm spice cutting through the rot.
My heart tripped. Chase. I knew it before my brain caught up, before logic could try to tell me I was wrong.
I could feel the ghost of his scent against the back of my throat. He was here. Somewhere in the chaos.
Someone fell. Close enough that the bed bounced under me.
Another crash, metal against bone. And another shout.
My heart hammered so hard it hurt, every beat vibrating through my ribs, through the ropes.
The air was full of dust and smoke now, thick enough to taste and my heavy breaths sucked too much of it in.
I coughed, trying to twist my head away from the mattress.
I couldn’t see. I couldn’t move. Just listen. And imagine.
I pictured it all in flashes. Shapes of bodies moving through fog, fists connecting, blood spattering.
Maybe Chase was winning. Maybe he wasn’t.
Maybe this was him dying. Or maybe he’d walked in, seen me, and decided I wasn’t worth the trouble.
Or the Kings? Had they finally found me?
I wanted to shout out. Scream for my brother, but another lungful putrid air had me gagging into the dirty mattress.
A sick sound cut through the noise. A crunch. Something breaking. Then another shout. I tried to count how many voices were left, but they blurred together. The air was thick with fear, sharp and sour. My fear.
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.
“I can’t see right,” I murmured, blinking fast, panic curling tight in my chest.
“It’s okay,” he said quickly, voice steady. “It’ll come back. You’ve been blindfolded too long, that’s all. Your eyes just forgot the light.”
Forgot the light. That was exactly what it felt like. Darkness had moved in and was now reluctant to leave.
I focused on him again, on the deep shadow where his eyes should’ve been. Slowly, colour found its way in. Brown, gold, the faintest flash of worry that softened the hardness in his face.
When he reached out, the movement was cautious, a test. His fingers brushed my cheek, tucking a piece of hair behind my ear, lingering a little too long on my skin, like he didn’t want to let go.
“Better?” he asked, eventually.
“Getting there,” I whispered, though the room still swam, the dark edges of it clinging like a bruise.
“Good.”
Someone groaned from the floor. Movement.
“Then we need to go. Here.” He stood straight, moving, pulling his hoodie off over his head. “Put this on. Your jacket is fucked.”
I nodded, pushing upwards, clutching the tatters of my leather jacket against my chest. The room reeled, spinning like a Waltzer.
“I got you,” he said softly, guiding the material over my head.
Now his scent enveloped me completely and for a moment I was lost in it.
Fingers curled around my hand, gripping carefully, but meaningfully. I stood up. My head spinning, staggering backwards. He caught me, sweeping an arm round my waist.
“I got you, Tiger. But I can’t give you any more time to adjust. You trust me?”
“Fuck no.”
“Good girl,” there was a hint of a laugh in his voice. “
Chase hurried me out of the room. My eyes and my legs were unable to keep up. I was still half blind, staggering like a drunk, missing a step and lurching forward but never hitting the floor, Chase gripping me tightly.
Then the corridor dropped away, double doors at the end and then, through those, a huge open space.
The light shone obscenely. Bright white light burning into the back of my eyes and it felt like I was blindfolded again.
But when it cleared, I stole glances, catching the thick hook hanging from the chain in the ceiling.
They had kept me here for days. Chase had hung me up there and left me dangling.
And now his arm was wrapped around me protectively helping me escape.
And fuck, I hoped I wasn’t wrong. For now, though. This was all I had. Chase.
On we lurched, through the cavernous space. Chase didn’t stop, his steps becoming more hurried, and mine more laboured. I shook with each movement. Cold. Tired. Weak. Staggering like a newly born calf.
And then we were outside.
The air was cold, grabbing at my face, creeping under the hoodie Chase had given me.
I’d been cold where they’d kept me, but in the night, it was even colder.
I’d eaten almost nothing for days. No energy to warm my body.
Chase handed me a helmet and I took hold of it, staring at it like I’d never seen one before.
“Goes on your head, Tiger.”
“Where’s yours?” My voice stuttered, cold air nipping at my lips.
“Only got the one. You’re wearing it.” He pushed his leg over the bike, his eyes meeting mine. A silent command. And then he patted the tiny excuse of a seat behind him. “Hop up, Tiger.”
It had been years since I’d ridden pillion. And the last time was on the back of Thrash. I’d vowed never again. I looked at the Yamaha and Chase on it watching me, then back at the doors to the building that had been my dungeon. The next time there was a choice I wouldn’t ride in that bitch seat.
The door to the building moved, pulling open. A huge mass of a man staggering out clutching at his side. His eyes were wide with rage and his arms even wider.
“Now, Jazz,” Chase barked.
He was quick on his feet for an injured man.
“You’re fucking dead, Chase.” He shouted.
The tattooist. The man forcing the Rat’s patch into my skin. Digging that fucking tattoo gun in far deeper than it was supposed to go. He’d wanted to hear me scream. To beg him to stop. I gave him neither.
Any choice I thought I had was gone in a second. I rammed the helmet onto my head, grabbing at the hand that Chase held out for me. We were racing forwards before my arse even hit the seat, bits of loose gravel kicking out behind us as we sped away.
I closed my eyes. The first hit of air was a shock.
Cold and sharp, a slap that tore through the thin fabric at my throat.
Then came the rhythm. The steady, pulsing growl of the engine beneath us.
The vibrations travelled up through my legs, through my chest, until my heartbeat began to fall into sync with it.
My hands clutched at Chase. The smell of smoke and oil and wind pulling me somewhere I’d forgotten I could go.
The Yamaha roared into the night, a blur of black and noise slicing through the silence like freedom itself.
Every gear shift pushed me back against him, and I felt alive in a way that hurt.
My body was still raw, my skin still burning from where they’d held me down, but the road didn’t care.
Out here, it was just the hum of the engine and the rush of wind screaming past my ears.
No walls. No ropes. No darkness. Just the endless stretch of tarmac swallowing the miles beneath us.
For a moment, I was weightless. Floating somewhere between terror and peace. The cold air bit at my cheeks, but it was real, and that was enough. This was what freedom felt like. The kind that didn’t need words, didn’t need promises. Just movement. Just speed. I could breathe again.
But freedom was a lie, wasn’t it? My stomach dropped as the lights of Middlesbrough glimmered in the distance.
Because I knew the truth. The road didn’t end with safety.
Not for me. Not yet. The Kings were the only thing that could keep the Rats from finishing what they’d started, and the Kings were the very thing I’d been running from. The thought twisted sharp in my chest.
I leaned closer to Chase, the cold tearing at my tears before they could fall. The Yamaha surged faster, chasing the horizon. My happy place. My prison. My escape. All at once.