Chapter 6
CHAPTER SIX
JESS
One.
Two.
Three.
The numbers drift through the fog, but I don’t know why I’m counting. There’s nothing to count. No creaking headboard, no theatrical moans, no men paying my father for a turn with my mother. Just darkness and the slow, mechanical rhythm of something beeping far away.
Something heavy sits on my chest, pinning me to whatever it is I’m lying on. I want to push it off me, but I can’t move. It’s like my body belongs to someone else and it won’t respond to any command I give it.
So I continue to count, and that’s when I know something is terribly wrong.
Four.
Five.
Six.
I stopped counting like this when I left home—when I didn’t have to hide in closets anymore or worry if the men my mother was pleasuring would look for me to blow them next.
Suddenly the beeping noise grows louder, and I’m engulfed by heat. It intensifies, and I feel it licking at my legs, crawling up my skin. The mechanical bull crashes down, and I can’t move as the fire races toward me.
It’s a nightmare I’m desperate to escape, yet I can’t, and I become fully aware of why I’m counting.
Seven.
Eight.
The flames are on me now, melting my skin. I scream, or at least I think I do, but the sound gets swallowed by the roar of the fire and the shattering of glass. The pain is everywhere. It’s in my legs, my chest, my lungs. Smoke fills my throat, thick, black, and suffocating. I can’t breathe.
Nine.
My eyes jolt open, and I’m greeted by a blur of bright lights that temporarily blind me. I try to gasp, but there is something lodged in my throat, choking me. My body bucks on instinct as I claw at the air, my fingers finding nothing to grip.
Fear floods every cell in my body. I can’t breathe. I can’t scream. It feels like I’m drowning and the more I struggle, the more the thing in my throat seems to fight back.
“Mrs. Holland! Mrs. Holland, you need to calm down.”
Mrs. Holland?
I don’t know who Mrs. Holland is, but I really wish they’d stop calling out for her and concentrate on me.
Help me. Please.
Someone.
Anyone.
Ten.
Eleven.
Twelve.
Help me!
Pain continues to radiate from my legs. It crawls viciously up through my hips and settles deep in my bones.
My skin feels like it’s being peeled back and salted, every nerve protesting in unison.
It’s so intense that my vision blurs for a second, and when it comes back, there are faces hovering above me.
Strangers in blue scrubs and white coats, their mouths move, but their voices are muffled.
“Mrs. Holland, you’re in the hospital. You’re safe. We need you to calm down so we can assess your breathing.”
I shake my head. I’m not Mrs. Holland, and I’m not safe. I’m being burned alive, and no rational part of my brain will let me think otherwise.
Tears spill from my eyes and slide down my temples, soaking into the pillow beneath my head. Again, I try to scream for help, and this time a guttural sound vibrates from the back of my throat.
A pair of familiar brown eyes come into view, and relief floods me so intensely that it almost eclipses the pain.
Tori.
My best friend. My roommate. The only person in this world who ever gave a damn about me without asking for something in return.
I try to reach for her, but I’m unsuccessful, and a sob rattles through my chest.
“Jess, it’s okay. I’m right here.” Tori’s voice is thick with emotion as her hand finds mine, squeezing it gently. “You’re gonna be okay. Just try to calm down.”
I want to tell her to get me out of here. I want to beg her to make them stop hurting me. But I can’t speak. I can’t even squeeze her hand back. My fingers lie limp against hers.
“There was an explosion at the bar,” she reveals, and those words ignite a memory. The flames come rushing back—licking, consuming, destroying. I feel them all over again, and a sound tears from somewhere deep in my chest.
Tori’s face crumbles as she leans closer, her free hand brushing hair from my forehead.
“No, no, no. Listen to me. You were injured, but you are going to be okay. Do you hear me? You’re going to make it through this.
You’re in the hospital, and the doctors are doing everything in their power to help you heal. ”
“That’s enough,” a man wearing blue scrubs says as he attempts to shove Tori aside. “Ma’am, I need you to step back. She’s too agitated right now, and you’re making matters worse.”
“No, I’m not leaving her side. Can’t you see she’s terrified?”
“I said step back,” the doctor says as he grabs her by the elbow and tries to move her from my bedside.
Tori’s face contorts with anger. “Get your fucking hands off me.”
Another set of hands appears, pulling at Tori’s shoulders, and I watch in horror as they drag her away from me. She fights them, twisting and pulling, her eyes never leaving mine. I try to scream her name, but all that comes out is another strangled gurgle.
Maybe this is what hell feels like. There’s no other explanation.
“Mrs. Holland, listen to me.” A different voice now. “We need to remove the breathing tube, but you have to calm down first. If you’re this agitated, we can’t risk it. Do you understand?”
I don’t understand anything. Why are they calling me Mrs. Holland? My last name is Owens. I’m twenty-three years old and I’ve never been married.
The machine beeps faster, matching the frantic pace of my heart. My body thrashes, and the pain in my legs spikes so sharply I see stars.
“We need to sedate her,” someone says. “She’s going to hurt herself.”
No.
I don’t want to be put back under. I want to escape this torture. Fighting with everything I have, I close my eyes and will my arms to find some strength so I can lift them and pull this thing out of my throat.
However, my efforts come to a halt when a commotion erupts inside the room. My eyes spring open as the door slams against the wall, startling everyone who crowds my bed.
“Get your fucking hands off my wife.”
The room goes quiet. All the doctors and every nurse freeze at the sound of that deep, commanding voice. A voice I’ve heard only a few times, and never once was it directed at me.
I force my eyes to focus through the tears, and there he is—tall, broad, covered in ink and cloaked in leather, his jaw set in a hard line as he pushes through the crowd.
Lucifer.
For the first time since my eyes opened, my body goes still. The counting stops. The panic recedes just enough for me to wonder why he’s here. Why is he calling me his wife? My gaze tracks him as he cuts through the crowd, his leather cut such a stark contrast against the sea of blue scrubs.
I blink once, then again, waiting for him to disappear, but those dark eyes—so wild and dangerous—lock with mine, and soon he’s standing right next to me, his nostrils flaring as he continues to stare at me.
“Mr. Holland.” The doctor who tried to move Tori steps forward, his voice tight. “Your wife is in extreme distress. Her heart rate is dangerously elevated, and she’s fighting the ventilator. If we don’t sedate her immediately, she risks?—”
Lucifer cuts him off, but his eyes never leave mine. He doesn’t turn his head or shift his gaze to the wall behind like he’s done so many times before. He just holds my stare.
“Then sedate her,” he growls. “But do it gently. And don’t you dare fucking touch her like that again.”
The doctor opens his mouth, then closes it. He nods once and turns to the nurse hovering near the IV.
I stare up at Lucifer, trying to make sense of what’s happening.
“You’re okay,” he says, his voice dropping to barely a whisper. His hand finds mine, and his fingers wrap around my palm. They’re warm, rough, and steady, and they swallow mine completely. “I’m not going to let anything, or anyone, hurt you. I’ve got you now.”
I want to pull away. I want to demand answers. But the cold is already creeping in through the IV, sliding up my arm and spreading through my chest. My eyelids grow impossibly heavy, and the edges of my vision darken.
Lucifer’s face is the last thing I see—his jaw clenched, his lips moving as he utters words I can no longer hear.
Then the darkness takes me again, and this time, I don’t fight it.
Time becomes meaningless in the space between consciousness and oblivion.
Slowly, the fog begins to lift. The hum of the machines grows louder, and I become aware of my body again—the ache in my chest, the heaviness in my limbs, and the strange numbness that creeps over every part of me except for my legs.
My eyelids feel like they weigh a hundred pounds each, but I force them open anyway.
It takes a moment for my vision to adjust, and when it does, I turn my head slowly.
The room comes into focus in pieces—the IV stand with its clear bag of fluid and the monitor with its growing green lines—all reminding me I’m in a hospital and a prisoner to my body.
Lucifer sits in a chair beside my bed, his massive frame folded into a seat that’s clearly too small for him.
His elbows rest on his knees, his hands clasped together, his head bowed.
The leather of his cut stretches across his broad shoulders, and even in the dim light, I can see the dark circles under his eyes, the stubble that covers his jaw, the exhaustion etched into every line of his face.
I stare at him, trying to understand why the silent, brooding biker—the man who spent countless nights watching me from across the bar—is sitting vigil at my bedside.
My lips part, but no sound comes out. The tube is still down my throat, and the realization sends a fresh wave of panic through me. My heart rate spikes, and the machine beside me beeps in response.
Lucifer’s head snaps up at the sound, and his gaze cuts to me.
For a moment, neither of us moves. He just stares at me, those dark eyes wide and unblinking.
I start to wonder if I’m dreaming. If this is some twisted mind game, one where the Devil himself sits at my bedside, watching over me like some kind of twisted guardian angel. Maybe the fire fried my brain, and this is what madness looks like.