Chapter 112: Healing
The humid Balinese air, thick with the scent of plumeria and damp earth, hung heavy in the sprawling main villa. Two weeks had scabbed over the raw wound of Jasmine’s betrayal, but beneath the surface, infection festered. Bruce moved through the opulent rooms like a ghost, his movements precise but devoid of their usual vital energy. He ate the meals prepared by Ketut and Sophia, mechanically, tasting nothing. He swam laps in the infinity pool, the water cool against skin still holding the memory of his recent gauntness. He held meetings, his voice regaining command but lacking the undercurrent of passion that usually electrified a room.
His wives watched. Always. A silent, protective constellation orbiting his grief.
Lena was his constant shadow, a warm, grounding presence. She’d curl beside him on the sun lounger, her head resting on his chest, saying little, just being. Sometimes, her hand would find his, fingers intertwining with desperate tightness. Bruce would squeeze back, his swirling hazel eyes distant, fixed on the emerald expanse of rice terraces beyond the villa walls. The gold flecks Ketut cherished were muted, overshadowed by deep, troubled blues and muddy greens.
"He's thinking about her again," Erika murmured softly to Mystique as they watched Bruce from the shaded veranda. He stood statue-still by the infinity edge, staring at nothing. "Look at his eyes. Like storm clouds over the ocean."
Mystique, leaning against a carved teak pillar, nodded grimly. Her own gaze was sharp, protective. "Yeah. The history runs deep. Four years. The wild times." She remembered Jasmine’s fierce energy, the way she’d throw her head back and laugh, the way she’d dominated a room – and sometimes Bruce. "He loved that crazy fire in her. Still does, somewhere underneath the hurt."
Camille joined them, carrying a tray of chilled coconut water. Her expression was etched with quiet concern. "The texts," she said, her voice low. Jasmine’s messages had been relentless. Is he okay? Has he come back? Please, just tell me he’s alive. They’d all silenced their notifications, a united front, but the digital pleas were an invisible weight. "She’s desperate. Scared."
"And we ignore it," Lena stated flatly, appearing beside Bruce at the pool edge, wrapping an arm around his waist. He startled slightly, then leaned into her, his hand automatically finding the curve of her celebrated ass, a familiar anchor. “She doesn't get to crawl back now after her almost breaking Bruce, and that it blew up in her face."
Bruce flinched almost imperceptibly at Lena’s blunt words, a shadow passing over his face. He didn’t contradict her. He just pulled her closer, burying his nose in her hair, inhaling deeply. The scent of her shampoo – coconut and vanilla – usually so comforting, couldn’t quite mask the phantom smell of Jasmine’s favorite tuberose perfume that seemed to haunt him.
Later that night, the air inside the vast, open-plan living room felt charged. Low Balinese gamelan music played softly, but tension hummed beneath it. Bruce sat on a plush sectional, Lena tucked under one arm, Sophia massaging his feet. Ketut watched his eyes, her brow furrowed. "The green is… sickly," she whispered to Erika. "Like stagnant water."
Erika squeezed Ketut’s hand. "He’s hurting, Ketut. Deeply."
Lena felt the tension coiling in Bruce’s body. The haunted look hadn’t left his eyes since dinner. She tilted her head up, capturing his gaze. "Papi," she breathed, her voice husky with intent. Her hand slid down his chest, over the defined muscles of his abdomen, stopping at the waistband of his loose linen pants. "You need to stop thinking." Her fingers dipped beneath the fabric, finding the thick root of his cock already stirring. "Let me help."
Bruce’s breath hitched. A flicker of something other than pain sparked in the hazel depths – a desperate need for oblivion. "Lena…" It wasn’t protest. It was a plea.
Without a word, Lena pushed him back against the cushions. She swung a leg over his lap, straddling him. Her small hands tugged his pants down just enough to free his erection, thick and heavy, springing up against her belly. She didn’t bother with her own clothes; she simply shoved the thin silk of her skirt up around her waist, revealing the smooth, dark skin of her thighs and the damp lace of her panties already pushed aside. She reached down, guided the broad, flushed head of his cock to her slick entrance.
"Fuck the pain away, Papi," she murmured, her dark eyes locked on his. "Fuck it deep inside me." Then she sank down, impaling herself on his entire length in one slow, relentless glide.
"JESUS!" Bruce gasped, his head snapping back against the cushions. Her tight, wet heat enveloped him, a shocking, visceral counterpoint to the emotional numbness. Lena groaned, a deep, guttural sound of satisfaction as she took him to the hilt, her inner walls pulsing around his girth. "Oh god, you feel so fucking good. So deep."
She began to move, rolling her hips in a slow, grinding rhythm. Her thick thighs flexed as she rode him, her small, perky tits swaying tantalizingly beneath her thin top. Bruce’s hands flew to her hips, gripping hard, fingers digging into the soft flesh as he instinctively thrust upwards to meet her downward plunge. His eyes were wide, fixed on her face, then dropping to watch where their bodies joined, mesmerized by the sight of his thick cock sliding in and out, glistening with her wetness.
"Yeah, Papi," Lena panted, speeding up. "Fuck me hard. Make me feel it. Forget her. Just feel me." She leaned forward, bracing her hands on his shoulders, her ass lifting slightly, changing the angle. Bruce cried out as the head of his cock slammed against her cervix with each deep thrust. The sharp, intense pleasure-pain was electric, shattering through the fog of grief.
"Fuck! Lena! Right there! Oh god, right fucking there!" His hips pistoned upwards, meeting her downward strokes with bruising force. The wet, slapping sound of flesh on flesh filled the room, punctuated by their ragged breaths and Lena's low moans. Sweat beaded on Bruce's forehead, tracing paths down his temples.
The other wives watched, arousal warring with concern. Camille’s breath hitched as she saw Bruce’s expression – not ecstasy, but a desperate, almost feral need to obliterate thought. Erika bit her lip, her own core clenching in sympathetic rhythm. Mystique moved closer, kneeling beside the sofa, her hand reaching out to stroke Lena’s back, then lower, tracing the curve of her ass where it met Bruce’s thrusting hips. Sophia’s massage had stopped; she watched, captivated, a flush creeping up her neck. Ketut’s eyes were wide, fixed on the raw, powerful movement.
Lena’s moans climbed higher, sharper. "Harder, Bruce! Fucking destroy me! Fill me up! Make me yours!" She slammed down onto him, her body arching, her head thrown back. "Oh fuck, I'm gonna come! Make me come on your cock, Papi! Please!"
Bruce roared, the sound raw and primal, driven by a torrent of pain, lust, and desperate release. He hammered up into her, his balls slapping against her ass, driving relentlessly into her clutching depths. Lena screamed, a high, keening sound as her orgasm ripped through her, her pussy clamping down on his shaft like a vice, milking him.
The intense pressure, the feel of her pulsing around him, shattered Bruce’s control. "LENA!" he bellowed, his body locking rigid. Thick, hot ropes of cum erupted violently inside her, jet after jet, flooding her channel. He thrust erratically, grinding deep as he emptied himself, a guttural groan tearing from his throat, his eyes squeezed shut against everything but the blinding physical sensation.
For a moment, there was only the sound of their harsh breathing, the slick wetness between them, the lingering echo of their cries. Lena collapsed forward onto Bruce’s chest, trembling, his softening cock still buried deep within her. His arms came around her, holding her tightly, his face buried in her hair. His breathing was ragged, his body slick with sweat. The frantic energy that had driven him was spent, leaving behind a hollow exhaustion, but the haunted look in his eyes had momentarily receded, replaced by a dazed, post-coital emptiness.
The silence was fragile. Then, jarringly loud in the humid stillness, Bruce’s phone, discarded on the teak coffee table, began to vibrate and ring. The harsh electronic trill cut through the heavy air of sex and exhaustion.
Bruce groaned, not moving, his face still pressed into Lena's hair. "Ignore it," he mumbled, his voice thick.
It rang again. And again. Persistent. Urgent.
Camille, standing near the table, glanced at the screen. Her face, flushed moments before from the spectacle, drained of color. "Bruce," she said, her voice tight, unfamiliar. "It's... it's St. Mary's Hospital."
A cold dread prickled Bruce’s skin, cutting through the lethargy. He lifted his head, his eyes meeting Camille’s, the swirling colors in them churning violently. Lena felt the sudden tension in his body, like coiled steel.
"Answer it," he ordered, his voice low, dangerous.
Camille swiped the screen, putting it on speaker. "Hello?"
"Am I speaking to Bruce Thorne?" A professional, clipped female voice.
"Yes, this is Camille Thorne, his wife. He’s here. What is it?"
"Mr. Thorne is listed as the primary emergency contact for Jasmine Dubois. She was admitted earlier this evening following an apparent self-harm incident. She’s currently in critical but stable condition in the ICU. We need Mr. Thorne to come to the hospital immediately."
The words hit the room like a physical blow. The scent of sex curdled into something sour. Lena froze atop Bruce. Erika gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. Mystique’s protective stance stiffened. Sophia’s eyes widened in horror. Ketut let out a small, choked sound.
Bruce didn't move. He didn’t breathe. His gaze, fixed on the phone on the table, seemed to fracture. The swirling hazel – the gold, the blue, the green – dissolved into a flat, terrifying grey. Then, a sound tore from his throat, raw and agonized, a scream ripped from the deepest core of his being. It echoed through the opulent villa, a sound of pure, unadulterated shattering.
Lena clutched him tighter, her own eyes wide with panic, feeling the tremor that began deep within him, threatening to break him apart right there in her arms.
The scream died in Bruce’s throat, leaving a raw, ragged silence broken only by the frantic beeping echoing from the phone speaker. Lena felt him tremble violently beneath her, his muscles locked like stone. His eyes, moments ago clouded with post-coital haze, were now wide, fractured mirrors reflecting pure, unprocessed horror. The swirling greens and blues Ketut monitored were obliterated, swallowed by a flat, leaden grey.
"Bruce," Lena breathed, her voice tight with panic. She scrambled off him, pulling his linen pants back up with trembling hands. "Bruce, snap out of it!"
The other wives surged forward. Camille ended the call, her own face ashen."ICU. Critical but stable. We have to go. Now." Her voice was clipped, commanding, cutting through the shock.
Bruce blinked, the grey in his eyes churning like storm clouds. He sucked in a sharp, shuddering breath. "Jasmine." The name was a broken whisper. He shoved himself upright, swaying slightly, his naked chest slick with sweat that now felt cold. "Hospital. Where?"
"St. Mary's," Camille confirmed, already moving towards the villa entrance. "Ten minutes. Move!"
Chaos erupted. Sophia darted to grab Bruce's discarded shirt. Mystique was already barking orders at unseen staff for the cars. Erika helped Ketut, who looked faint, her eyes locked on Bruce’s devastated expression. Lena stayed glued to Bruce’s side, her hand gripping his bicep, anchoring him as he stumbled forward on legs that felt numb.
"Keys," Bruce rasped, his voice thick. "I'm driving."
"Like hell you are, Papi," Lena shot back, steering him firmly towards the door Mystique held open. Her fierce protectiveness flared. "You can barely stand. Camille's driving."
Bruce didn't argue. The frantic energy of minutes ago, channeled into fucking Lena with desperate abandon, was gone, replaced by a terrifying hollow dread that threatened to swallow him whole. He allowed himself to be guided, his mind a whirlwind of fractured images: Jasmine’s wild laugh, the glint of betrayal in her eyes during their final confrontation, the feel of her body arching beneath him in ecstasy. Her perfect ass bouncing as she rode him backwards, his hands gripping her hips, her moans echoing in the palatial bathroom. "Fuck me harder, Bruce! Stuff that big white cock deeper!" she'd screamed, grinding down until he saw stars.
The humid night air hit his face like a slap as they piled into the waiting SUV. Camille slid behind the wheel, her movements precise despite the tremor in her hands. Lena pulled Bruce into the middle seat, buckling him in like a child, while Mystique took shotgun. Erika, Sophia, and Ketut crowded into the back.
Tires screeched on the villa's smooth driveway as Camille accelerated, the powerful engine roaring towards the main road. The scent of frangipani and damp earth was abruptly replaced by the sterile tang of air conditioning and shared panic. Bruce stared straight ahead, unseeing, his knuckles white where they gripped the armrest. The city lights blurred past.
"She texted," Erika murmured from the back, her voice small. "Over and over. Asking if he was okay. If he came back."
"We ignored her," Ketut whispered, her voice thick with guilt. "We thought... we thought it was manipulation."
Lena’s jaw tightened. "After what she did? Nearly destroying him? After she tried to steal from us? Fuck her texts." But her grip on Bruce’s arm tightened, a silent contradiction to her harsh words.
Bruce flinched. The memory surged, unbidden, vicious: Jasmine on her knees in his office, her full lips stretched obscenely around his cock, those defiant eyes looking up at him as she deep-throated him, gagging slightly before pulling off with a wet pop. "Missed this fat dick, baby," she’d gasped, wiping her mouth, just days before her betrayal unfolded. The visceral memory collided violently with the sterile hospital announcement. Critical. Self-harm.
"Shut up," Bruce growled, the sound low and ragged. "Just... stop talking." He pressed the heels of his hands hard against his eyes, trying to push the images away – the good, the bad, the devastatingly intimate.
Camille navigated the winding roads towards the city center with terrifying efficiency, the SUV slicing through the night. The silence inside the car grew heavier, suffocating. Sophia reached forward, placing a tentative hand on Bruce’s shoulder. He didn’t react.
Minutes stretched, each one an eternity marked by the drumming of rain starting to spatter the windshield and the frantic pounding of Bruce’s heart against his ribs. The imposing bulk of St. Mary’s Hospital finally loomed ahead, its stark, lit windows a beacon of dread. Camille slammed the SUV into park at the Emergency entrance.
Bruce was out of the car before it fully stopped, stumbling slightly on the rain-slicked pavement. Lena was right beside him, Mystique flanking his other side like a sentinel. The other wives followed close behind, a phalanx of worried beauty moving through the automatic doors into the harsh fluorescent glare of the ER waiting room.
The air smelled of antiseptic, stale coffee, and despair. A harried nurse looked up from the triage desk. Bruce strode towards her, Lena and Mystique keeping pace. His voice, when it came, was unnervingly calm, belying the storm in his eyes.
"Jasmine Dubois. ICU. Where."
The nurse blinked, startled by his intensity and the entourage. "Family?"
"I'm her husband," Bruce stated, the lie smooth, necessary. "Bruce Thorne. Her emergency contact. Where is she?"
The nurse scanned a screen, her expression shifting to one of recognition mixed with pity. "ICU, third floor. Elevators down the hall to your left. But sir, only immediate family–"
Bruce was already moving, ignoring her, heading towards the elevators Lena indicated. The wives flowed around him, a protective wave clearing a path through the sparse, late-night crowd in the waiting area. The elevator doors slid open. They crowded in. The ascent was silent, the hum of machinery the only sound. Bruce stared at the glowing floor numbers, his breathing shallow.
The ICU corridor was a tomb of hushed sounds and blinking monitors. A different nurse intercepted them at the double doors. Dubois's room? I'm sorry, only two visitors at a time, and only immediate..."
Bruce didn't slow. He pushed past her gently but firmly, his eyes scanning the room numbers. Lena stayed glued to him, Mystique a half-step behind radiating ‘don’t fuck with us’ energy. The nurse stammered, trying to keep up. "Sir, please! Protocol!"
He found the room. Room 312. The door was slightly ajar. Bruce stopped dead. Through the gap, he could see the stark white sheets, the tangle of wires and tubes snaking towards the bed, the rhythmic beep of a heart monitor. And there, small and impossibly fragile amidst the clinical machinery, lay Jasmine. Her caramel skin was ashen, an oxygen cannula taped under her nose, her usually vibrant face slack, her eyelids bruised-looking even in sleep. One wrist was heavily bandaged.
Bruce stood frozen in the ICU doorway, the rhythmic beep of the monitor a cruel counterpoint to the frantic pounding of his own heart. Jasmine looked tiny, swallowed by the stark white sheets and tangle of tubes snaking from her bandaged wrist and into machines. Her vibrant caramel skin was a sickly grey, her full lips chapped and parted around the oxygen cannula. The sight punched the air from his lungs. This broken thing wasn't his fierce Jasmine, the woman who’d ride his cock with abandon, screaming "Fuck this pussy, Bruce! Own it!" as her nails raked his back.
The sterile hospital light carved harsh shadows across Jasmine’s still face, a brutal mockery of her usual vibrant energy. Bruce gripped the doorframe, knuckles white against the pale wood, the rhythmic beep...beep...beep of the heart monitor drilling into his skull. Lena pressed close behind him, her warmth a stark contrast to the icy dread clawing up his spine. "Papi," she breathed, her voice barely audible over the machine’s drone.
He couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. This fragile, broken creature wasn’t the woman who’d once ground herself onto his cock in the back of the limo, demanding he "spread this fat white ass and fuck her like the slut she was", her laughter echoing off the tinted windows. That Jasmine was gone, replaced by this ghost tethered to wires, her bandaged wrist a silent, screaming accusation.
"Sir? You need to step back. Only two visitors." The nurse’s voice, insistent, finally pierced the fog.
Bruce ignored her. He took a single, shuddering step into the room, the antiseptic smell thick in his throat. His gaze swept over Jasmine – the unnatural pallor, the dark smudges beneath her eyes, the slight tremble in her exposed fingers. Fury warred with a gut-wrenching wave of grief so profound it threatened to buckle his knees. This was his fault? His punishment for protecting Lena after Jasmine’s jealous rage sent her hand cracking across Lena’s face? For cutting her off? He’d drawn the line at violence against his family. Always.
Camille gently touched his arm. "Bruce, please. Let the doctors do their work. We can wait outside." Her calm was a lifeline, but it felt distant, muffled.