14. Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fourteen

B old

Jasmine and I walk the cracked sidewalks of the only world I've known since arriving on Earth. I point out the community garden, the street art murals, and the playground where kids of all species play together.

"It's not easy," I admit as we stroll past a group of orcs packing up their tools after repairing a broken fence. "But we make do. We look out for each other."

Jasmine nods, her eyes bright with understanding. "I can see that. There's so much I never realized…"

The air is filled with the scents of naganese, orc, and minotaur food mingling, tantalizing even though we just got up from the table.

"I called Dad while you were taking your shower before we came here. Explained everything. I'm glad you, with your otherworldly hearing, weren't in the room for it. He lost his shit for a moment."

Guilt flares through me that this happened on my watch. I'm certain the man must blame me. Right now, he's probably searching for another bodyguard to take my place.

"Yeah?" My tone is cautious.

"I don't think I've ever heard him so furious."

"At me?" I blurt, wondering if, even as we speak, his driver is on his way to pick Jasmine up from the Zone.

Her eyes flare wide. "At you? No. He's angry at Nature's Edge, or whoever is doing this. But I know all that anger is a smokescreen. Underneath is fear. I'm it for him. All he has left."

She pauses, her jaw working, eyes filling with unshed tears glinting in the glow of the streetlights.

I press my palm to the small of her back and silently escort her to the nearby park, then sit across from her at one of the picnic tables. I've wondered about her history, especially her mother. It seems she's about to reveal some of that to me and I want to make it clear I'm eager to hear whatever she wants to share.

My ears perk up, swiveling to focus wholly on her. Maybe a non-wolven can't read the signs, but it means she has my full attention.

Staring at the green-painted table, she opens her mouth, then closes it again. Taking a chance, knowing I'm violating the boundary she erected, I grip her hand and lace our fingers together. It must be the right thing to do, because only now does she gather the courage to look at me.

After swallowing, she gives me a small smile. "Mom died of cancer when I was in junior high."

"That must have been tough." I wasn't going to say a thing, but how do you hear something like that without offering support? My fingers tighten their grip, my claws carefully sheathed.

After I give her hand a little squeeze, she continues. "I'd been a good kid, an excellent student, until she got sick. I managed to hang on during her first course of chemo. My grades even rebounded when she went into remission."

She shrugs, her gaze skating from mine as she appears to re-live some memories.

"You don't have to tell me this, Jazz." I keep my voice gentle, even as my chest aches for her.

She looks directly at me as her fingers tighten around mine. Her touch is like an anchor, tethering us together in the deepening night.

"It's been years since then. Besides, part of being a therapist is doing your own therapy. I've done a lot of healing, put much of this in my rearview mirror."

She gets a faraway look in her eyes, then continues her story as though she's reliving it.

"When Mom's cancer returned, I wasn't just a good girl. I became the perfect daughter. I did everything right, so I was the last thing she needed to worry about. After she died, the wheels fell off the bus."

I don't look at her. Her body language made it clear my direct gaze felt too intimate. To let her know I'm listening intently, to silently give her my support, I circle the back of her hand with my thumb and give her space to talk—or not.

"I made a beeline to the wrong crowd, tried alcohol, substances, skipped classes, and failed most of them." She gives a rueful laugh. "You wouldn't have recognized me. I died my hair midnight black, painted my nails a matching shade, wore combat boots. Dad tried to be supportive, but he was grieving, too."

She looks off into the distance as though she's reliving it.

"He sent me to a private school, got me a therapist—who I refused to talk to. He talked to me, loved me even harder than ever, though it had to be the worst year of his life. No matter what he tried, I just kept circling the drain."

Looking directly at me for the first time in minutes, she says, "I can't blame him for seeking out long-term treatment for me. He felt me slipping away and Nature's Edge promised all the answers. What did he know? He's an excellent businessman, not a therapist. He thought he was securing my future when they showed him inflated statistics bragging of their success rate and filled their color brochures with pictures of smiling, well-fed students in pristine classrooms."

A rabbit near the swing set catches her attention and she seems lost in her thoughts for a moment, then she returns to her tale. "He took them at their word when they gave their bogus rationale for why we were to be no-contact for the first three months. He believed it was the right thing to do."

Despite how far she says she's come from those days, her eyes fill with tears. I want to interrupt, change the subject, but that would minimize her pain and wouldn't help at all.

"By the time we were allowed a two-hour visitation I was so terrified of repercussions, and already so brainwashed, I never breathed a word of the horrible treatment I was receiving: the starvation, sleep deprivation, physical punishment for the slightest infraction, hint of rebellion, or low test score. And don't get me started on the "truth hours" where we had to stand in front of the group and confess not just every dark deed we'd ever performed, but every negative thought."

The extent of her abuse shocks me. It sounds worse than enemy brainwashing techniques. That she's such a wonderful person and seems to have overcome all that terrible treatment just makes me care for her even more.

"Dad kept asking me if I was okay. Demanded to know why I had lost so much weight and wouldn't talk to him. They assured him it was the withdrawal from the drugs and alcohol and that I was making good progress but it would take time. He came as often as they would allow."

"I knew he loved me and was constantly worried about me, but I was too terrified to tell him what was happening. The glowing reports and good grades made him believe he had made the right decision to send me there. After all, it was the most expensive program of its kind, so it must be good, right?"

She pretends to scratch an itch under her eye, but I know she's swiping at a tear. I just grip her hand harder in solidarity.

"Finally, I escaped when on a PR trip with Wright, the CEO. He was using me as the golden girl who was the epitome of what Nature's Edge could do. I gave him the slip and made my way home, gave Dad some cock and bull story about why I left, and then sat in my room for months, barely leaving to come out to eat."

She pauses, lost in thought. I can only imagine how dark those times were for her.

"Dad assumed I was just angry, doing it to punish him for sending me there. He had no idea until just a few months ago what I'd endured. Trust me, if the look on his face was any indication, I think he's contemplated murder on more than one occasion since I disclosed everything. I can't tell you how many times he's apologized."

"Months after my release, I got it together enough to go to college. Then, as I healed, I decided to become a therapist to help others who were recovering from similar abuse. Trust me, Nature's Edge wasn't the only program to turn troubled teens into cash cows."

"I'm so sorry, Jazz," I murmur, my thumb stroking her knuckles. "I can't begin to understand what you've been through. But… I want you to know how much I admire what you're doing. Helping people, fighting for them… it's incredible. You're incredible."

She ducks her head, but not before I catch the glimmer of tears on her lashes. "Thanks," she whispers. "That means a lot, coming from you."

My brow furrows. "From me?"

She looks up, meeting my gaze dead on. "Bold, you're the strongest person I know. You were a child when you were ripped away from your world, from your family. You didn't give up. The way you protect your community, the way you've stepped up for me… I see how much you care, how deeply you feel things." Her hand squeezes mine, her voice dropping to an intense, velvety murmur. "Never doubt your worth, okay? You're a good male. The best male."

Fuck. My heart is pounding now, her words igniting a warmth in my chest that spreads through my veins so hot it feels flammable. She sees me, really sees me, in a way no one else ever has. And Goddess, it's the headiest feeling in the world.

We gaze at each other for a long, charged moment, the air thick with everything we're not saying. I know if I let myself, I could fall into her deep brown eyes and never surface. Drown in the soft touch of her skin, the silk of her hair, the sweetness of her lips…

"So, yeah, Dad hearing about this threat, the bomb squad… it sent him into orbit."

"Look. If you don't like this plan, being in the Zone, let's change things. I'll get you somewhere safe, even if it means handing your case over to someone with more experience—"

"No!" Her eyes are blazing with irritation. "That's not what either my dad or I want. After Dad took a breath, he realized this is a solid plan."

She tosses me a small smile and shrugs. "Actually, he used the word ‘genius,' though I'm loathe to admit it. I don't want you to get a swelled head."

It's been a quarter of a century since I've seen my father. There's something about Mr. Sinclair calling me a genius that makes me feel full, expanded. It's so powerful I have to make a joke about it or it would be overwhelming.

"Well, Ms. Sinclair, this genius is going to get you back to my palatial digs, change the sheets, and let you get a good night's sleep. You've been through enough for one day."

I don't want another fight, but the way I'm feeling right now—compassion, affection, and lust all swirled together—I'm definitely sleeping on the couch tonight. It's the only gentlemanly thing to do, even if my inner beast is howling at me to curl around her in that narrow bed, to breathe in her scent and feel her heart beat against mine until the sun rises.

But I won't push. What Jasmine and I have is too precious to rush. Too real to risk. So I'll take the couch and I'll take the ache, because having her here, safe and close, is enough for now.

It has to be. Even if every fiber of my being is whispering that she's already so much more than just a job, just a client. She's mine.