His expression settles into that familiar, immovable refusal, brows drawn, mouth flattened, his entire face communicating his answer before he ever speaks.
“Give me your phone,” I say, extending my hand toward him with quiet expectation.
“No.”
The answer comes immediately, without hesitation.
“Oh, come on,” I groan softly, tipping my head back again as if the injustice physically pains me. “I died. I deserve this.”
One of the Russians in the back leans forward slightly, curiosity overtaking discipline. “What he need?”
“My healing mix,” I answer, solemn as prayer.
The second Russian lets out a low snort of laughter.
Chace shakes his head slowly, his restraint visibly fraying. “Not here. Not now. This is not the time.”
“Chace,” I reply patiently, as though he is the one being unreasonable, as though we are arguing over something trivial instead of standing on the edge of bloodshed, “your uncle isn’t even here yet, and I have recently returned from the afterlife, so I think you can afford me three songs.”
The first Russian tilts his head. “Who this Chace?”
“Nickname,” I say easily. “Comes from all the pussy he chases.”
Both Russians break into deep, unrestrained laughter, the sound filling the confined space, and Chace shoots me a look sharp enough to draw blood, though I catch the faint betrayal of amusement at the corner of his mouth before he forces it away.
Victory is mine..
He exhales hard, the sound heavy with resignation, and hands me the phone like it costs him something.
“Three songs,” he mutters darkly. “Then I’m putting a bullet in my own fucking head.”
I flash him a grin in silent agreement and immediately scroll to my playlist, turning the volume up until the speakers hum with promise before leaning back and pressing play.
Holly Valance’s Kiss Kiss erupts into the silence.
The bass reverberates through the concrete chamber, bright and defiant and wildly out of place in a tomb filled with armed men waiting for violence.
“What the fuck,” one of the Russians says, raising his voice to be heard over the music, staring at me as if reevaluating every assumption he has made about my sanity.
The other studies me in the rearview mirror, his gaze narrowing with something like respect. “I read people,” he says quietly. “This one dangerous.”
I close my eyes.
Tonight, I’mma give you my kiss, kiss. Just hold on a little longer, baby.
The music moves through me, loosening muscles that have been locked tight for days, smoothing the jagged edges of my thoughts, allowing something cleaner and colder to rise in their place.
This isn’t psychological warfare. This is medicinal.
Call it whatever you want, but it works.
For a moment, a stray thought drifts through me, something about doctors and warnings and limitations and whether getting hard qualifies as a medical emergency… but it dissolves before it can fully form, lost to the rhythm and the strange, necessary calm settling into my bones.
Chace sighs beside me. “Just let him listen.”
I do.
I let the song fill the car, let it anchor me here in this moment suspended between what was and what is about to be, while beneath the surface my mind sharpens, aligning timelines and exits and outcomes, every path eventually leading to the same inevitable conclusion.
