C4, PT. 1 (Patreon)

Her head was pounding like she had the worst hangover in history. Was she ill? She raked her mind for an explanation, but it was a complete blank. Biting back a groan, she cracked open her eyelids. She was in a dimly lit room. She made out a figure sitting at her bedside. Roth sat hunched over, elbows propped on his knees, face buried in his hands. Even in her befuddled state, seeing him in this uncharacteristic defeated pose was alarming. Something terrible must have happened.

She must have made a sound because his head lifted swiftly. He didn’t look like the immaculate, invincible tycoon she knew so well. There were deep grooves on his face that hadn’t been there yesterday. His hair was rumpled and messy, and his eyes were raw and bloodshot. She opened her mouth to ask what the hell was going on, but the moment their gazes collided, everything came flooding back.

She stared at the ceiling as her heart slammed against her ribs. Beneath the covers, her hands balled into fists. Fuck. She failed.

“Jasmine.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him rise, and then he leaned over her.

“Thank you, God,” he breathed.

She tensed when he cupped her cheek.

“Are you okay? Are you in pain?” A pause and then he pleaded, “Baby, look at me.”

No way in hell. One glance into his haunted eyes was enough. She didn’t want his guilt or pity. She didn’t want him to touch her or talk to her in that soft voice because he felt bad that she tried to end her life. In fact, she didn’t want him anywhere near her.

Her mind went over those last moments, lying on the tile, bleeding out. Her aching head suddenly made sense. There was some sort of bandage on her forehead, indicating she’d been injured, but apparently survived. How was that possible? Who survived a bullet wound to the head? Couldn’t she do anything right?

“Mo.”

Roth didn’t raise his voice, but the door opened a split second later, letting in a shaft of bright light.

“She’s awake,” Roth said.

“Jasmine?”

The sound of Mo’s voice made her shut her eyes. She didn’t want to face him, not when he’d seen her at her lowest, but she had a feeling dismissing him and Roth would be next to impossible. The only positive was that Roth backed off, but his hands were replaced seconds later by Mo’s. His were significantly softer, cooler, and his touch extremely delicate. Why had she never noticed before that he had the fingers of a pianist?

“How do you feel, Jasmine?” Mo asked, voice low.

Ashamed, resentful, sore, hanging on by a thread.

When she didn’t answer, he said, “The bullet grazed the skin several inches above your temple. Thankfully, it didn’t penetrate. Your eardrum ruptured from the gun shot. Can you hear me, okay?”

She gave an infinitesimal nod that she could hear him just fine since he was standing on her left.

“Any nausea? Pain?”

Her physical discomfort was minimal compared to her emotional devastation that she was still breathing. Nevertheless, she answered, “Yes.”

“I want to check your vitals.”

His clinical tone helped her focus and identify her injuries. The hearing in her right ear was slightly muffled, which was to be expected. Her face had some swelling and bruising from the proximity of the blast, but the majority of her pain centered on her injury, which had its own heartbeat.

“You lost a lot of blood. Rest is the best medicine.”

Mo’s fingers, which had been turning her head this way and that and prodding her face, suddenly disappeared. Her eyelids fluttered but didn’t open when he gently placed his hand on top of her head in a way that felt strangely paternal.

“At such close range, it’s a miracle you emerged with such minor injuries.”

It didn’t feel like a miracle. It felt like a bad joke.

“Jasmine,” he called, his voice more gentle than she’d ever heard it.

Her chest tightened.

“You will heal, kuzum.”

The foreign word startled her into opening her eyes. At first, she thought Mo had done it deliberately, but his chagrined expression as he hastily retracted his hand and stuffed it in his pocket told her the phrase had slipped out by mistake.

“Kuzum?” she echoed.

Mo’s eyes flicked across the bed to Roth before he said, “It’s a harmless endearment. Something I say to my nieces and nephews.”

“What does it mean?”

He hesitated and then admitted, “It means lamb.”

She blinked. “Lamb?”

Mo cleared his throat and stepped back, inclining his head in a formal manner as if to make up for his lapse in familiarity.

“I’ll return with food and medicine.”

The moment the door closed behind him, Roth stirred.

“Jasmine, I—”

Desperation gave her the strength to throw back the covers, roll in the opposite direction, and sit up before he could say anything else. But she underestimated her injuries and would have fallen back on the bed if Roth hadn’t gripped her shoulder.

“What the hell are you doing?” he demanded.

“I need to go to the bathroom,” she said woozily and put her hand to her head, which felt like it was going to split open. “I just need a second.”

Roth rounded the bed and scooped her up in his arms. She gritted her teeth against a surge of nausea and had no choice but to slump against his chest as he carried her to the bathroom.

She flinched when the bright lights came on and heard the hollow echo of his steps as he moved across the tiles that would be imprinted in her mind for all time. Mo discussed her injuries without once making a reference to how she’d gotten them. That should have made her feel better, but it didn’t. The way Roth carried her like fine china should have made her feel coddled and cared for. Instead, she wanted to smack his face and scream at him. Waking up felt like a cosmic joke. She didn’t want to be here. Didn’t want to be with him. Didn’t want to face the consequences of her actions. If only she’d known the gun had that fucking safety on it…

**This is a raw draft of Bitter Sins. Please do not share or distribute.

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