Page 92 of Burn for Me

“I already forgave you,” he reassures me.

“But can you trust me?” I ask.

A long silence stretches through the vehicle. I understand how difficult it is to regain trust–Sharkie still struggles with the uncertainty of whether she will ever fully regain Tides' trust. I tilt my head to gauge his reaction, but instead of seeing deep contemplation, I find him looking at me with pure confusion.

“You faced your worst fear for me. I’d be a fool not to trust you.”

“No, I ran through something scary because I finally realized it wasn’t my worst fear.”

“What’s your worst fear then?”

“Losing you.”

As soon as those words leave my lips, I can feel sweat starting to bead on my palms, so I clench my hands into the fabric of my pants. We’ve shared deeper thoughts before that held more meaning, but this time, it feels different because I’m admitting that there are things worse than dancing with flames.

“Good thing it's until death do us part,” he mutters, and I lean back into him, letting that simple statement wash over me.

“And even after.” I grin.

Thirty

9-6-2024

It’s until death do us part. Even after that, I’ll follow my little devil into hell.

-Sam

I look at Jasmine, curled on the small cot beside my makeshift medical bed. I want to wake her and tell her that Tide has given us the go-ahead to return to base. However, I won’t mention that this decision is mainly because he’s still pissed about what happened and needs some space rather than wanting tomake her run the length of the ship until she collapses from exhaustion.

Glancing at the clock, I huff in frustration. We’ve been on the ship for nearly forty-eight hours without any movement. Laura did an excellent job patching me up with the limited supplies she had, and fortunately, my healing time isn’t nearly as long as it would have been if I had taken another bullet. Still, I’m starting to feel restless. Moe took my phone, so I can’t check the cameras to see if anything has changed. I don’t care for watching television, so that’s not an option either. The IVs connected to my arm and the oxygen tube in my nose make it nearly impossible to move more than a few inches. Trust me, I’ve tried–multiple times–but each attempt ended with someone yelling at me to stay still and ‘rest.’

I don’t want to rest; I want to be home with my wife.

That thought sends an odd sensation down my spine, so I look at her again. Her lips are parted, and some hair falls over her face, blocking the beautiful view from my sight. I wanted to be angry at her for stealing the life that was mine to take when we arrived on the boat, but I couldn't bring myself to do it. Something about seeing her covered from head to toe in blood and grime distracted me enough that all I could think about was how soon I could heal and make her look that way for entirely different reasons.

It suddenly feels too hot, so I push the blanket down to my waist and brush my hand over the bandages wrapped around my abdomen, up to my shoulder. I believe Laura said they’re in place to ensure the array of scrapes doesn’t get infected, and maybe something about a bone dislocation? Honestly, I don’t care. It’ll heal. Luckily, I’m the only one who walked out with whatIwould call minor injuries.

Delilah had a scare from the roof of one of the abandoned buildings while sniping. Jonathan walked away with barely ascrape, Jasmine had minor cuts and bruises, and Sharkie didn’t inhale nearly as much smoke as Cas’ made it seem. The rest of the people in that building… I huff a laugh. God, my little devil is psycho because most of them either fell from her hands or Delilah’s.

I gnaw at my lip, trailing my hand down over my abdomen as her shirt rides up with the shift she makes to get more comfortable on the cot. It’s just enough for me to spot the skin from her waist to her hips, but of course, her shorts cover anything else. I feel like I should be processing everything—rationalizing the events that have occurred—but in all reality, I’ve been through worse, so this doesn’t feel as life-altering as it should.

The only thing I can seem to focus on is Jasmine's ribs expanding with each breath she takes. No one has ever loved me the way she has. I remember the panic in her breathing as they pried her from my arms, the fight she put up to escape Sharkie's grasp and return to me, and the wail she let out when the building began to crumble. I growl and lean back into the pillow more aggressively than intended. I've never had nightmares—more like memories that don't frighten me but remind me of what I've been through. However, after that incident, I won’t admit it’s why I can’t sleep properly.

Everything in my body was burning—not from the heat around us but my sheer fright. I had to get to her, and with every push or pull of the concrete slab, it felt like that possibility was slipping through my fingers. At that moment, I knew it was my karma for all the sins I had committed in my life. My retribution was to watch the only thing that had ever stood by my side like an impenetrable force shatter before my eyes. I wasn't ready, though. I'm the reaper, for God's sake; I get to choose when my soul is ready to be long forgotten. With pure determination, Imanaged to turn my body just enough to help Cas and Jon, even if it meant injuring my shoulder in the process.

A quiet groan pulls me from my thoughts, and I glance at Jasmine, who swats hair from her eyes and gives me a sleepy glare. I realize my small temper tantrum must have woken her, and I can’t help but grin.

“Mornin’.” I chirp. She rests her head in her hands, and I feel a twinge of guilt for waking her, but it quickly fades.

“It’s not morning. It’s almost night.” She corrects me, and I roll my eyes, glancing at the ceiling instead of her.

“I’m sorry. I know you’re bored, but there’s not much I can do,” she whispers. I turn to her; she looks at me softly as she steps beside the bed to check the monitors.

“Turn them off,” I grumble, wrapping my hand around her wrist before she can step back with a stern expression. “I’m fine; I didn’t have a heart attack, so I don’t need them.”

“They’re necessary,” she insists. “You’re at risk for infection, and the oxygen is needed because of smoke exposure. It can affect your breathing and heart rate…”

She swats at my hand, but I’m not letting go.

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