Time Sensitive Target

Part 47 - Violent Trauma

My eyes opened sluggishly, light-headedness washing over me in an instant. The outline of a red digited lock glared blearily from the bedside table- had I always had that- I was the wrong way round. The bed was the wrong way round, and it smelled diff- I lurched upwards and instantly regretted it, my head catching up with my body in staggered waves. This wasn't my room. This was... Jase's room. I'd never been in here but it smelled like him; clean and masculine, sparsely decorated with no personal effects. What on earth was I doing in Jase's bed?

Horror crept up my spine as I tried my hardest through the fog of exhaustion to do a mental diagnosis of my body. Between my legs felt... normal. There was no throbbing, no soreness except for the resounding ache and pain in my bones. My underwear was in place, I was dressed- wait- I was dressed. My fingers held the soft supple fabric of the white t-shirt shrouding my body. This was Jase's, the neckline held his lingering scent. Had he moved me in here? Had he slept next to me? I was furious at the violation, but my brain was so numb with fever that still prickled my forehead. I needed to get up, I needed to confront him. You couldn't defend yourself if you tried.

I gingerly tiptoed out of the bed, limbs heavy, leaning against the window frame as my head adjusted to the standing position. I breathed in wheezes, I was more light-headed than I'd thought. I needed to eat, the pit of my stomach gnawing sickeningly with hunger. It was just after 11am, so I'd slept solidly since I'd passed out after work, deep enough for me to not remember how and why I'd ended up in Jase's room. Had I gone in there accidentally in a fluish stupor? No, I wouldn't have put on one of his t-shirts, that's for sure. I could hear muted chatter from the TV in the living room, Jase was up. All I needed to do was walk there without fainting, and hold my own.

I padded lightly, one foot deliberately in front of the other, shockwaves of dizziness reverberating through my head. Jase looked up from the couch, pausing whatever he was watching as he heard my fumbling approach.

"You're awake, how are you feeling?" He stood instantly and began to walk towards me. I took a staggered step back in defence, the idea of him moving me, or touching me in my sleep consuming my thoughts.

"How... why did I wake in your room? In your t-shirt?" I struggled to form the words in my delicate state.

"Your room was too hot, your fever was really high. I had to call Matty over to assess you and I didn't want him to see... anything," he explained casually, frowning at me with unconcealed concern.

"You can't... do that," I retorted lamely, a sudden wave of dizziness and fever flooding me. You're going to pass out. I held the wall for stability and Jase instantly reached for me, extending his arms to take my weight. "Stop," I groaned and staggered back further, doing myself no favours. You need his help.

"Paige," Jase growled and held my shivering body, ignoring my weak reluctance. "Sit down," he guided me to the couch, my movements easy with his assistance.

"I don't need help," I curled up in the corner of the sofa, feeling exposed and vulnerable. His t-shirt, designed to cover his huge frame was big enough to conceal everything at least, though I was less concerned with dignity and more concerned with the pressure inside my head.

"You need fluids." Jase strolled to the kitchen and poured a large glass of water, bringing it over and sitting beside me carefully. "Drink, here," he tipped the perspiring glass to me, I weakly drew my arms up to hold it but he positioned it beside my lips before I could reach across. "Do you want more?" He asked softly.

The three gently spoken words provoked memories that haunted my nightmares into flooding my conscious.

"Do you want more?" His voice was a gentle whisper, his eyes large and full of sadistic tenderness. His hand moved towards my face, I couldn't edge away from him any further. Every nerve in my body boiled with a fire I couldn't extinguish. His fingertips lightly traced the damp skin of my forehead, peeling an errant lock of hair and tucking it behind my ear. The motion was slow, deliberate, his skin against mine in a soft caress.