Chapter 9 Jasmine #2
And then there are the other things I want to know, the ones I haven’t put into writing. The more self-absorbed thoughts.
Kane’s reasons for being so cold and cruel when we first met, and—even more importantly—why that’s changed.
It seems Kacey was also prepared today.
Her regular overalls look tidier, more fitted. Her hair is still in her high ponytail, but with the addition of some curls. Her lashes appear darker, cheeks rosier. She also feels... better.
The nervousness is more stable, less staticky, and when Amon arrives that afternoon, with a large grin and gleaming eyes, Kacey doesn’t even glance my way.
And even though I’m prepared, so prepared, questions on the very tip of my tongue… I also become distracted. Because when Kane enters the atrium, there are two distinct differences.
One: the grey lines once tarnishing his skin have all but gone.
But then there’s the most noticeable difference, the one that has my stomach twisting, questions no longer present—not a single semblance of a questioning word in my mind—because what is he wearing?
Since I’d met Kane, he’d only ever worn two outfits. A formal dark suit, jacket on and off, or his enforcer uniform consisting of a tight compression top, chest plate, combat pants and boots. Both of which—I won’t even try to deny—looked incredible on him.
But this.
This.
My eyes can’t help but trace over the soft, oversized, hoodie he’s wearing. With matching black joggers—which I have to drag my gaze from—and trainers.
And his hair.
I turn away, bite my knuckle, curse internally.
What is this? Some sick and twisted joke? Does he have any idea how good he looks right now? With his silky, black—unstyled—hair. In those soft clothes. Looking so relaxed and carefree and—
“I brought you something to eat.”
And he’s brought me food?
My teeth tighten, biting into the bone harder as I scrape all my haywire composure together.
It’s just clothes. It’s just hair. It’s just food.
I inhale sharply through my nose, dropping my hand, and turn to face him.
But his eyes are the killing blow.
There’s no furrow, no harsh line, his gaze seems so… wary. Again. Filled with wisps of grey as they track the features of my face before lowering back to my eyes.
Then he lifts his hand, revealing a large thermos in his grip. “It’s soup.”
“This is so unfair.” I shut my eyes the moment the words leave. That wasn’t meant to be said aloud.
“What is?” Now his brows furrow, but they’re slightly obscured by a soft piece of hair. I so desperately want to reach out and brush it back—
“This,” I say with urgent frustration, waving a hand over him. “You with your comfy clothes and your soft eyes and—and soup!” Then I throw both hands up in the air.
“Soft... eyes?” he repeats, slow and confused, like the words are foreign.
“Yeah.” I shake my head, staring at the thermos. “Yesterday, you caught me off guard with the whole immortality thing and your… past. But today, I was ready. Prepared. I had all these questions and then you…”
I slowly realise how crazy this sounds.
What exactly is my problem? That he isn’t dressed the same?
I look back at him. He’s still completely confused. He has no idea what I’m on about or what my problem is. He places the thermos onto the planting table beside us, then slips one hand into the large pocket at the front of his hoodie—
“I want that hoodie so badly.” My eyes shoot wide open.
No.
No. I did not just let that thought—
“Have it.” He’s already grabbing the hem with one hand, beginning to tug it up when I quickly step forwards.
“No! Nope. No.” I shake my head with every word. He listens, stopping and slowly letting the fabric fall back into place.
Because who knows what hell would be unleashed if he removed that hoodie.
What would be underneath? A t-shirt to reveal the bulge of his arms?
Or something that would tease his toned stomach?
Or maybe something tighter? Something that enhanced every line of muscle like a second layer of tantalising skin…
I take three steps back, close my eyes, fumbling to find the stool behind me as I sit.
“I can get one for you if…” I shake my head and his words slowly trail off.
He doesn’t understand.
I don’t want a hoodie, I don’t want one like it. I want that one.
The one he’s wearing.
Covered in his scent, steeped in his power, wrapped in that impossibly cool darkness I always crave.
I hear another stool scraping then feel the edges of his darkness reach out, barely tracing mine in a brief acknowledgement—a soft greeting. Immediately, the coolness he always brings engulfs me, settling over my skin like a weighted blanket made of shadow.
And I suddenly feel so... tired.
“You need to eat, Jasmine,” Kane says so softly.
That’s his word for today—soft.
I never thought I’d use it to describe him. But today, that’s what he is. That’s what he feels like.
Soft and cool and dark and just so… soothing.
“I’m not hungry,” I murmur, the words a mumble.
I still haven’t opened my eyes, I can’t. My head feels so heavy that I lean my cheek against my palm, prop my elbow onto the table.
I sigh. “I’m just tired.”
His darkness delicately brushes my arm, a gentle action that causes my eyelids to slowly flutter open.
Kane’s expression is so… solemn.
His gaze searches my skin, flitting between my eyes, my lips—probably noting the lack of colour, how desaturated I’ve become.
“Tell me what I can do to make you eat,” he says, those soft eyes searching mine, and it’s such a quiet, sincere plea that my stomach twists with something akin to guilt. “Please.”
Then I remember yesterday, everything he shared with me about his past, how he suffered, and here I am, refusing to eat some soup.
“Will you eat with me?” My question clearly catches Kane off-guard because he becomes a statue. His grey-speckled eyes narrowing as they search mine.
Then he nods.
We stay in the comfortable silence as he takes the thermos. I watch as he opens it, pours the thick liquid into the plastic cup, but when I think he’s about to take a sip, he slides it over to me. I raise a brow but he doesn’t back down, only nudges the cup closer with his knuckles.
I sigh, all the while trying to ignore the twists and tucks my stomach creates from the wonderful scent of that soup. Rich and creamy and…
I reach out, take it, lift, feel the heat on my lips, my tongue, and the first swallow is… heavenly.
“More.” At his sudden command, both our eyes widen—equally stunned.
His, from realising he’s just ordered me when he knows he’s in no position whatsoever to do so, and mine… from my reaction to it.
Kane drops his gaze, staring at the table as he mutters a low and regretful, “Sorry.”
But the urge to comply, the heat conjured by that single more, curls low in my stomach… And it has very little to do with the temperature of this soup.
I do drink more.
And the warmth it brings, the ache it soothes… Before I realise, the cup is empty. When Kane finally allows himself to glance at me again, his eyes are even brighter.
Softer.
“Your turn.” I even add a small, smug smile as I slide the cup back to him.
What I don’t expect, after he refills it, is for him to turn the cup so his mouth lands precisely where mine was.
My lips part, his eyes never leaving mine as he drinks, then swallows.
Did he… do that on purpose?
No. Not Kane.
I look away. I can’t keep staring into his gaze, not while I’m imagining what his lips might be feeling.
No, it’s just a coincidence.
There’s no way he planned that. No way he wanted to feel the echo of my lips, to taste the remnants of my warmth...
Just like how I don’t want to slip my hands into the large, front pocket of that ridiculously soft hoodie. Just like how I wouldn’t want to keep going, sliding my fingers further until they brush the hard ridge of his stomach—
“Julien made it.”
The softness is immediately shattered.
“What?” I snap out the single word, my darkness bristling in alert.
Kane slowly places the cup down, gaze hardening as his lips tilt downwards.
He either doesn’t understand my sudden anger or doesn’t want to acknowledge my discovery.
I snatch the thermos, rush over to the sink and pour the remaining soup out with a hard shake. My eyes scan the contents, analysing the colours, the textures, the smell. When I realise it’s no use, I deliver my furious glare at Kane.
“Was his blood in that?” I snarl the question, pointing aggressively at the spilled liquid.
Immediately, Kane’s features shift into one of understanding. He takes a step closer. “No.”
“Don’t fucking lie to me!” I yell, vines of darkness slipping around me. Do I suddenly feel hot? Is that his blood? Is it taking over my body? Infecting my blood stream? “Did you watch him make it? How do you know? How can I even trust what you say!”
My heart is racing, my vines thicken, tighten. My chest aches. Didn’t it do this last time? Before Julien appeared in that hotel room and I lost control?
I stare frantically at the shadows lining the room, the ones now growing, pulsing, just waiting for him to step out.
“Jasmine.” Kane begins to slowly approach me, his voice low and calm, his own darkness spreading around him like a cloak. “He wouldn’t. He hasn’t. I would know from drinking it. I have no reason to lie to you—I won’t lie to you. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you he made it first.”
I’m panting, when did I begin panting? I swallow, study his words, the tone.
Genuine. Everything.
His words, his body language, his… feelings. I can feel it—him. His emotions so strong and clear for someone who always buries them so deeply.
“I didn’t think.” He’s closer, leaning against the sink with me, glancing down at the steam billowing up.
The pounding of my heart lessens, the imaginary heat cools and my shoulders loosen.
I stare at the liquid as it circles down the drain. “It’s fine.”
“I can get you something else. Anything. Just—”
“I’m fine.” My arms wrap around my stomach.
I know Kane’s looking at me because I can feel his intensity, so I stare at the ground, study the laces of his trainers, how they’re tucked into place rather than tied.
“I got your message,” he says. He’s trying to fill the silence, but I let it hang.
I can’t force myself to engage in conversation with this feeling of betrayal lingering upon my skin, my lips, inside my body.
How careless was I to just accept food from him? So stupid. Naive. Like always.
Kane places his hand on the edge of the sink. I watch his fingers, see them twitch.
“I can leave,” he says, so quietly, like he’s already preparing to.
I scrunch my eyes shut, the words inflicting a sharp spasm in my gut. My lips part in a silent cry I can’t explain.
But his darkness is there. It sweeps around me, soothes me. The edge of a chill racing along my side, caressing my ribs, easing away the discomfort I can’t explain.
“Do you want me to leave?” The question fractures on his tongue, raw and low, like he’s trying not to let it hurt.
He sounds so… lost.
I manage the barest shake of my head.
Immediately, the aches melt away, as though rewarding me for making him stay, whispering the comforts I’d have if only I allowed it.
He’s even closer. “Do you want to ask me any questions?” He keeps his voice quiet, like he knows how close we are to breaking this fragile peace.
But I’m just so tired.
Tired of being in pain.
Tired of fighting my emotions.
This. Them.
The coolness intensifies and I finally open my eyes, glancing at his fingers still holding the edge of the sink. It’s his darkness still touching me, and I’m too selfish to tell him to stop. Too exhausted.
My head droops, I see his feet again, see those stupid trainers as they get even closer.
“Why are you dressed like that?” I murmur.
It’s not even close to a question I had jotted down, but it’s a question. And he has to answer because that’s the rule.
But for such a simple, easy, non-life-threatening question, there’s a very long pause.
Taking a deep breath, I force my heavy head up. But he’s looking over me, staring at something in the distance. It lets me really study him, see the lines which are still too visible, note how his body has turned inwards, how close we are… how he’s cornering me slightly—trapping me.
I should feel trapped. Claustrophobic, maybe. Like when the bond was revealed, when every wall felt too close and I needed to just leave.
But I don’t. I feel… comforted. Content.
Safe.
Those thoughts… these feelings… they’re so vibrant and intense, so sudden, they make it hard to stand.
My knees give out, but he already has me. His fingers gently clutch my sides as he props me up on the edge of the sink, and my forehead slumps to his shoulder. His ridiculously soft shoulder.
“You didn’t sleep,” he murmurs, his voice above me, the vibration easing me further. “Do you want to rest?”
When I don’t respond, because I can’t, I feel him move. He tilts his head, trying to angle it so he can see my face, but I’m not moving. I can’t. I keep myself pressed against his shoulder, lips to his chest. I breathe in his scent, the coolness of it, the comfort.
Everything is so still now.
My head slips, falling off his shoulder—he catches the side of my face and cradles it in his hand, steady and cool. It stays there, like we’re frozen in time. A soft chill brushes my lips, so fleeting I can’t tell if it’s real.
Then one arm curves firmly around my back, the other hooking beneath my knees, gathering me against his chest with such careful precision I barely feel the movement.
“I have you,” he murmurs.
I’ll just stay here, just for a few minutes… But the cooling sensation begins to fade, the gentle touches reducing, disintegrating—leaving.
He’s leaving? He’s leaving when I need him? Like the last time? When I had to ask? Had to beg—
“I’m not leaving.”
I can’t open my eyes, they’re too heavy, but I don’t need to. I feel him slowly adjusting me, drawing me closer, until every part of me is supported by him, his darkness settling over me.
And for the first time in days... everything feels soft.