Chapter Two
The helicopter blades beat above them like a war drum pounding the sky. Kaos sat still, knees wide, back straight, one hand resting on his thigh, the other—trapped in her death clutch. Both her hands strangled his like a life line while her pulse rapped against his skin, soft but frantic.
He kept his gaze forward, anchored on the horizon, but shifted the weight of his power. He eased the wall apart, the thinnest seam of spiritual access to measure her instability.
The entry point exploded like a paint bomb.
He flinched inside at the yellow panic, the purple laughter.
Blue dreams too big for her body, thoughts that bounced like marbles in a metal tin.
One rolled past him— Does he like hot sauce?
What if he’s vegan? Is this a military thing? Will I have to do pushups?
She inhaled too deep and imagined the entire helicopter plunging. Then came a scene of her rescuing him. Dramatic. Heroic. Unnecessary.
Kaos blinked as another image followed—her wondering if his eyelashes were real. Then came an entire spiral about whether he used conditioner or just had naturally blessed strands.
She shifted in her seat. Her knees touched his. She didn't notice.
Inside her mind, three squirrels were named after spices and had a job running her inner filing system. One wore glasses. One cursed. One sang. Loudly.
He narrowed the crack and the volume dropped while the colors remained. Bright. Reckless. Free.
A slow flush of red curled through the connection—shame. Embarrassment. Her panic that he might feel her inner chaos. Her worry about being too much. Not enough. And somehow both at once.
She squeezed his hand harder. Her head turned. She looked up at him.
He stayed still, gaze locked forward. Rage curled tighter inside him, coiling away from the light but unable to pull free.
Her gaze shifted back down and a wave of relief rolled out. Then came another blast of curiosity— Is he an assassin? Does he smell like cinnamon? Is it a sin to want to lick his jawline?
He closed the wall. Fast. Hard.
But the scent of her stayed in his head. Wildflowers. Wet stone. Strawberry wax. His hand twitched. She held on tighter.
Another thought slipped past the barrier before it sealed.
If I die right now, at least it was beside him.
Kaos shifted his grip, fingers adjusting inside hers. The Rage inside him stilled. Not gone. Just…listening.
The helicopter pitched slightly. Her shoulder bumped his and she apologized inside her mind, then repeated it three times in three different languages.
He didn’t move. But he didn’t let go either.
The ride leveled, hum steady beneath them. Her grip didn’t ease. Kaos kept his hand still, his Rage a quiet coil, his mind holding distance.
He’d closed the wall. He didn’t trust what lived behind it.
She startled and the wall cracked open wide. The wind rocked them sideways, just enough lift to make her jolt, her body lean fully into him. A sharp gasp. Then a muffled laugh. She clutched his hand tighter.
“Oh God,” she breathed, voice shaking. “If we go down, tell my plants I tried.” She nodded to herself.
“They’d want closure. Especially the cactus.
Name’s Edgar. Very clingy.” Her words came fast. “You ever ride one of these before? Of course you have. You’ve probably jumped out of them.
On fire. Holding a puppy.” Her eyes widened. “You look like the type.”
He held his tongue still.
She sighed. “Figures.”
The wall slipped open again, and in came her mind.
A fucking carnival. Hot pink thoughts twisted around chartreuse daydreams. Purple dripped down memory frames of his mouth.
Those lips. Good Lord, did they come with insurance?
How is that even legal? Bet he doesn’t even try to be that hot. Probably wakes up glowing.
Her hand shifted. Her thumb brushed his. She felt it. Yup. Yup. That’s illegal. Entire hand feels like sex and apocalypse and something I’d ruin my life for.
She tilted her head, studying his jaw now. He probably tastes like dark roast and fury. I’d take that caffeine hit straight to the ovaries.
Kaos narrowed the crack when his Lust quirked an envious brow.
But her thoughts still streamed through like spilled ink. Kade is hot too. But like… lemonade and justice. This one? Her gaze shifted up. This one is whiskey and war.
His Lust watched closely. Felt her thighs tense through the seat.
If I had to die underneath one of them—wait, no. If I had to LIVE underneath one of them—
The Rage inside him growled and he slammed the wall shut.
Silence.
He stared ahead while his Lust prowled restless.
Her breath slowed. Her grip loosened half an inch.
Turbulence hit and she flinched so hard her shoulder slammed into his.
“Oh my God, oh my God,” she breathed, closing her eyes, back to strangling his hand. “Probably just the pilot doing that thing. What’s it called? Oh right. Attempted murder. ” Her nervous laughter filled the space. “Sorry,” she muttered. “I babble when I’m panicking. Or happy. Or bored. Or alive.”
The wall cracked open again with a full color flood. Fear slammed through first. Not fear of death. Fear of dying before I get to know what that mouth tastes like.
Kaos exhaled carefully through his nose.
What’s wrong with me? Nothing. I’m fine. Just human. And doomed. Holy thighs, he’s probably a god. Or demon. Or both. Demon-god. Sex demon-god. Okay now you’re spiraling. Paint it out. Paint it out.
Kaos stood stone still inside himself as she mentally painted his hands in charcoal, his mouth in gold leaf, his shoulders in black oil smears.
A mixed media shrine. A six-foot sculpture of his back muscles made from twisted rebar and melted crayons.
A stop-motion claymation erotica starring his jawline.
Kaos clenched his hand when Lust pushed harder at his pores. She took it as comfort.
God I like him. I like him way too much. I’d let him rearrange my furniture. And my spine. Preferably at the same time.
The barrier bent under the weight of her need. This wasn’t just lust or awe. It was something richer. Deeper. A need to matter. To be seen. To hold something impossible and call it hers. And there was a fluctuation of guilt and shame, and no hesitation where it should surely be.
And color. Always color.
The copter dipped again and she gasped, turning her face into his shoulder without thinking. “Sorry,” she whispered, eyes wide.
Kaos let the wall stay open a moment longer. Long enough to feel her wonder. Long enough to feel himself unraveling inside it.
****
Kaos hadn’t moved for ten miles. His body stayed fixed, left elbow anchored against the door, right hand resting over his thigh like a loaded trap. His gaze never left the windshield. Not the driver. Not the window. But her. The loudest thing in the vehicle even when she wasn’t speaking.
She tried to be quiet at first. Gave it a good five minutes of pretending to enjoy the scenery. Then the nudges came.
“Do you think they’ll give me an art room?” she asked, voice light, hopeful. “I mean, they probably will. Right? Feels like a place that would have space for that.”
He held his jaw closed but she smiled like he’d answered.
“Yeah, exactly. Even if it’s just a small one. I can make do. I’ve worked out of closets. Once made a whole exhibit in a bathroom stall. True story.”
She crossed her legs the other way, rested her hands in her lap, and tried again.
“You don’t really talk much, huh?” She turned slightly, putting herself in Lust’s peripheral sight. “That’s fine. Mystery’s good. People talk too much. Not you, though,” she said with a snort and chuckle. “You probably only speak when it matters. Like… ‘the enemy’s dead’ or ‘duck.’”
He let his eyes shift. Just enough to see the curve of her cheek when she smiled at her own nonsense.
“You’re not laughing, but inside I feel like you think that’s funny. Or maybe you’re annoyed. Or both. I can work with that.”
She turned back to her window.
His eyes moved closer.
“Do you ever get tired of being the strong, silent type? Like, just once, do you want to break character and be like, ‘Jaxi, please stop talking or I’ll throw myself from the moving vehicle’?”
Kaos breathed in. Held it. Then let it go. Slow.
“Okay real question—if you had to live in any movie for a year, which one would it be? I’d pick something super colorful.
Like a Wes Anderson film. Everything organized but slightly unhinged.
You’d pick something violent, I bet. Probably in black and white.
No soundtrack. Just slow-motion explosions and betrayal. ”
Her foot tapped once against the floorboard. A small, restless beat. The kind you didn’t notice until it synced with your pulse.
“You’re judging me right now. I can feel it. You’re thinking, ‘Why won’t this girl shut up?’ And I get it. But also—maybe you’re secretly impressed. That I keep going. That I’m still talking, even while you look like you’re deciding where to bury my body.”
She paused. Pressed her lips together. Then laughed softly.
“That’s fine,” she allowed. “You’d probably do it artistically. Like, leave a note carved in bone. Very classy.”
Kaos kept his eyes forward, but inside, his grip on his Lust and Rage frayed with every word. She was filling the space like a force of nature. Painting the silence. Sculpting his responses out of thin air. Holding both ends of the conversation like it was a duet and he was just the instrument.
“I’ll shut up now,” she said.
But she didn’t.
“Unless you like it. Do you like it? You can blink once for yes. Or just keep staring into the void like it owes you money.”
Her laugh came again. Quieter this time. Almost shy.
“I think you’re probably brilliant. Not book-smart brilliant. But battlefield-brilliant. Like you see everything. Catalog it. Weaponize it. I bet you’ve already figured me out. Every weakness. Every strength. Probably know what I look like naked just from my posture.”