Page 18 of Burn for Me

I look over the various monitors, trying not to lose focus and get caught in my sleep-deprived thoughts–counting as each soldier files into the barracks and their private quarters whilescanning for a glimpse of soft blonde hair to come into view. I’ve been avoiding her since yesterday—I needed time to recompose myself—but I've kept a close eye on the monitors. It used to be enough to see her pixelated form, but I’m slowly realizing I’ve gone too far because now it doesn’t satisfy this need to be close to her, smell her, or feel her.

Right on schedule, Jasmine passes by in the corner of the screen, with Sharkie trailing closely behind. I tilt my head, trying to release the tension that has built up throughout the day.

Moe had the bright idea of helping Jasmine learn how to properly latch a hanging harness while we did our separate drills, per Caspian's orders, since I lost my exercise rights with her for the day as punishment. Moe's hands were too close to her, and Jasmine was smiling too brightly. I couldn't do anything but watch helplessly, glaring as I thought about how good he would be for her.

But she doesn't needgood.

She needs somethingdarkso her flames can flicker through and highlight all her perfections.

She needs me.

I exhale, running my hand through my hair and tugging at the strands as I try to locate her body on the screen. Once I spot her waltzing directly towards the monitor room, just like she does anytime I avoid her, I switch the display to expand a nearly completely blacked-out file, except for a picture and date of birth.

I want to prepare myself for what I might have to destroy if the time ever comes, but there’s nothing substantial. I could easily interrogate her—forcing the information out through methods that starkly contrast the subtle questioning I’ve been doing—but I wantherto do it willingly.

I want her to trust me.

I'm not the type of man who can hand his heart to a woman–I don’t have one–but I am the type of monster that'll gladly drag bodies into the pits of hell just so my little devil can pick the heart she wants.

I just need something to work with. If I could get her to tell me a fear, a dream, or even entice a flashback from her past, it would help.

“Bloody brilliant Sam.” Carlisle booms as I drag the leader of the Deserts faction behind me. Everything hurts, but I can't focus on that when the adrenalin of burning building after building to get to him still rushes through my veins. His army fought a hell of a fight, but they weren’t strong enough. Their poor decision to position themselves in the middle of civilization didn’t help either. The only way to get around was straight through, which caused quite a commotion. I suppose soldiers raiding houses to drag civilians into safe zones isn’t part of most people’s daily lives. At least that solves another problem as well.

We don't have to hide the chaos we create anymore.

“Where would you like him, Sir?” I brush my thumb to the corner of my bloodied mouth. Terrell groans, and I jerk the collar of his shirt to make him shut up from the consistent incoherent rambling. I can’t stand it; it's like nails on a chalkboard, making my skin crawl and teeth grind.

Carlisle waves a hand. “He’s useless to us unless he plans to form an allegiance.”

I pull my pistol from the holster at the same time I toss Terrell to Carlisle's feet.

“Did he at least give you the information you needed on your cousin… oh what was his name?” Carlisle draws, and my shoulders stiffen from having to refrain from shooting the son of a bitch.

“Brady. No, he is still untraceable.”

“Hate to say it, son, but with your family's background, he's probably dead by now or off someplace recovering,” He pauses, tapping his head “mentally.”

Carlisle catches my narrowed gaze, and his jaw tightens in response, prompting me to relax my expression. I know he’s not dead, and he would never accept that kind of help. He is my only remaining blood relative, so it feels instinctive to believe that he’s still alive—he’s just hiding. He’s somewhere he thinks my uncle can't find him–he’s trying to protect himself–but I can offer him sanctuary if I can just locate him.

“I'm sure we can locate your uncle maybe–” Carlisle nods, cutting off Caspian's words so I look back to the trembling, whining, pathetic mess at my feet, “Go on and feed them to the sharks, Sam. You know what? Everyone in our line of work needs a callsign. What do you think? I was thinking something like Reaper.”

I cut off Carlisle's rambling with the sound of a bullet cracking through Terrel's skull and stare at the blood pooling around my feet on the beautiful marble floor, but it quickly morphs into dirty, cracked concrete.

My breathing starts to shallow as one body turns to two, then three, until there are eight lying lifelessly around. The once bright room turns dark with red and blue beams of light flashing off the walls, and the smell of gunpowder turns to something more musky, but just as quickly as that smell comes, it fades into Jasmines.

My head jolts toward the creaking sound of the door opening, pulling me from my thoughts. I take a deep breath as I flex my hands above the keyboard, trying to relieve the tension in my shoulders. I must have gotten lost in another hallucination, and I find myself staring at more than just Jasmine's intakepapers. I glance at a few separate screens before closing out of Brady's files. It's still the same—he hasn’t aged or left any mark on the world, but I'm positive he's still out there somewhere. The trauma we endured together makes me feel like I owe him something, but I can’t repay every moment he saved my arse from my uncle or one of his sodden friends if I can’t locate him.

It’s uncomfortably quiet, and Jasmine’s footsteps have yet to come close, so I know she's trying to read my mood even though I never physically give her much to go on.

“You did pretty well in sparring today…” The words get caught in my throat as I try to ease her in. Images of how she straddled Moe to pin him make my muscles tense further, so I clear my throat before continuing, “But that's because you didn’t have much of a challenge.”

“Don’t sound so surprised that I’m actuallyokayat my job. Besides,” she murmurs in a voice that my throat craves to swallow. It’s gentle, sweet, and not the feigned tone she puts on for show; it's the one she reserves for the moments when it’s just us. The dimming light creates a silhouette around her body as she steps beside me and flips the collar of my uniform back down into position.

“Iletyou win.” She finishes quietly.

Her fingers brush against the fabric once more before she crosses her arms over her chest and leans back against the desk. She only closes herself off when there’s too much on her mind. Most of the time, she sits quietly on the desk, acting as if I can’t feel her watching me, but this time is different—so different that I turn my full attention away from the screens to focus on her.

“What’s wrong with you?” The words come out harsher than I intended.

---