Page 461 of Rage

"Who are you?" I finally rasp, curiosity warring with the caution that prickles beneath my skin.

"Someone who wants to help," he replies, and there's a weight to his words, a promise.

I force my eyes open wider, fighting against the swollen lids and stabbing light. The world slowly comes into focus, revealing a face hovering above me. Dark, intense eyes bore into mine, framed by a strong jaw and sharp cheekbones. Inky black hair falls in disheveled waves, and intricate tattoos creep down his neck, disappearing beneath the collar of his shirt. His features are a study in contradictions—hard lines softened by concern, danger tempered with gentleness.

"Why?" I croak, my voice still raw and unfamiliar.

A shadow passes over Jaz's face, something dark and primal flickering in his eyes. "Because I know what it's like," he says softly, his words heavy with unspoken history. "To be broken. To want vengeance more than air."

The intensity of his gaze overwhelms me, and I have to close my eyes again. The darkness behind my eyelids offers no respite, instead becoming a canvas for my pain to paint itself anew. Every nerve ending screams, a symphony of agony conducted by my battered body. My skin feels aflame, as if I've been draggedacross miles of broken glass and left to bleed under a merciless sun.

Another shard of memory pierces through the haze—darkness, a stifled scream, the cruel grip of hands that don't belong. I flinch, my breath hitching as the scene plays out in jagged fragments before my mind's eye. The sharp tang of fear floods my senses anew, and I whimper, trying to steel myself against it. I need to remember, to piece together the splinters of what happened, even if it razes my soul to ash.

"Easy." Jaz's voice is a low thrum. "Talk to me."

"Jumbled..." My voice comes out ragged, a testament to the turmoil within. "The memories are jumbled."

"Let them come, but don’t chase after them. They’ll make sense in time." There’s wisdom in his words, wrapped in the velvet of his tone.

I nod, or at least I think I do—it's hard to tell when my body feels so disconnected from my will. A shiver courses through me, not from cold but from the effort of holding onto this sliver of clarity. I want to recoil from his touch, to reclaim the space around me as my own untainted sanctuary. But the truth is, I'm adrift and right now, Jaz is the only lifeline I can discern through the fog.

"Thank you," I whisper, the words scraping against my throat like gravel. I’m grateful, yes, but there's an undercurrent of something else too—something dark and twisted that coils within me. Gratitude born from necessity has thorns, and they prick at me with every beat of my heart.

"Nothing to thank me for," Jaz replies, his hands moving with purpose as they tend to my wounds. There's a ritualistic quality to his movements, as though every action is both calculated and sacred. His fingers brush against my skin, leaving trails of fire in their wake, but it's a different burn than the oneetched into my memory. This one doesn't sear with malice; it's complicated, tinged with a pain that's almost... cleansing.

"Rest now," he advises, and I realize that my eyelids are heavy, my consciousness waning once more.

"Stay," I manage, the word barely more than a breath. It's a plea, a command, and a whisper of fear all at once. In this room where shadows dance along the walls and secrets linger in the corners, Jaz is an enigma I cannot solve, yet I can't seem to push him away.

"Always," he assures, and there's a promise in his voice that feels older than time.

I let the darkness take me again, but it's different this time. There's an edge to it, a sharpened resolve that wasn't there before. I won't just be a victim of my past, a plaything for fate. No, I'll forge my future with iron and blood. And if Jaz is willing to stand by me? Then so be it.

For now, his presence is the guardrail on this precarious bridge I’m crossing back to life. For now, that will have to be enough.

Chapter Two

Days blur into nights, a hazy tapestry of pain and fleeting lucidity. Jaz is my constant, a shadow that never strays, his presence both comforting and unsettling. He tends to my wounds with a gentleness that belies the strength in his tattooed hands, applying salves that sting and soothe in equal measure.

I drift in and out of consciousness, my mind a broken kaleidoscope of fractured memories. Each shard cuts deep, leaving me gasping and trembling. Jaz is always there, his voice a lifeline in the tempest of my thoughts.

"You're safe, little fighter. I've got you," he murmurs, over and over, until the words become a mantra that anchors me to reality.

"You... you keep calling me that," I say.

A small, sad smile tugs at the corner of Jaz's mouth. "You didn't have any ID on you when I found you," he explains. "And I didn't want to push for your name until you were ready."

I take a deep breath, feeling the weight of the moment. "It's Beyanka," I tell him. "Beyanka Harvey. But... most people call me Bee."

Jaz's smile grows warmer, a spark of something like affection in his eyes. "Bee," he repeats softly. "My little Bee."

His words hang in the air, a gentle claim that should make me bristle but instead wraps around me like a warm blanket. I let the silence stretch, savoring this moment of calm before the inevitable storm of reality crashes back in.

His fingers, calloused yet impossibly gentle, brush a wayward strand of hair from my face. The touch sends a shiver down my spine, a mix of instinctive fear and something else—something I'm not ready to name.

"Bee," he says again, his voice low and careful. "There's something we need to discuss."

I tense, bracing myself for whatever's coming. "What is it?"

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