Chapter 113: Jasmine
The harsh fluorescent light bleached all color from Jasmine’s skin, making the dark smudges beneath her closed eyes look like bruises. Bruce stood frozen just inside the ICU doorway, the rhythmic beep... beep... beep of the heart monitor a metronome counting the seconds of her fragility. Tubes snaked from her bandaged wrist, an ugly reminder stark against the white sheets. Lena pressed against his back, a solid warmth, her hand gripping his bicep as if anchoring him to the present.
Bruce stared at his wife. His wife he’d kicked out. Because her jealousy of Lena and his deep, special bond with her had festered into something poisonous, something violent. It had driven Jasmine, in a blind rage, to slap Lena hard across the face right there in the villa’s grand foyer. He wouldn’t tolerate violence against his wives. Not even from another wife. The line was absolute. He’d loved Jasmine fiercely, worshipped her incredible body, especially that ass he’d crowned the best on earth, but that strike against Lena had shattered something fundamental. He’d told her to leave. Seeing her like this, broken and tethered to machines... but this? She didn’t deserve to die. Not for a moment of jealous, poisoned fury.
A hot, silent tear escaped Bruce’s eye, tracing a path down his stubbled cheek. It was followed by another. His love for Jasmine had been a consuming, passionate force in his life for the past four years. Her betrayal – the violence, the scheming whispers trying to turn the others against Lena – had almost broken him. The raw, gutting pain of telling her to leave their shared life, their bed, their family... it had hollowed him out. Only Lena, with her fierce loyalty and insatiable need for his presence, her booty pressed against him as she slept, her whispered reassurances, had pulled him back from the edge of that abyss.
He remembered her frantic texts to the other wives, ignored but pulsing with a desperate energy: Is he ok? Has he come back? Please, just tell me he’s breathing. She’d realized how wrong she was. Not just about Lena, but about everything. She’d tried to wake him up, bring him back – not for her own sake, but for him. For his happiness. For the family she'd torn herself away from in a moment of madness. She’d tried, fiercely, right up until the end. Until this.
A low moan escaped Jasmine’s lips. Her eyelids fluttered, heavy with sedation and exhaustion. They opened slowly, unfocused at first, then locking onto Bruce standing silhouetted in the doorway. Recognition, raw and desperate, flooded her face. A choked sob escaped her, muffled by the oxygen cannula.
"Bruce?" Her voice was a fragile rasp, cracked and weak. Tears welled instantly in her wide green eyes, spilling over. "You... you came back?" Her gaze flickered past him to Lena, still pressed protectively close. A fresh wave of grief washed over Jasmine's features. "Lena... brought you back?" Her voice trembled.
Bruce couldn't speak. His throat felt welded shut, choked by the sight of her brokenness and the tidal wave of remembered love, anger, and guilt. He could only nod, a single, jerky movement of his head. Another tear tracked down his cheek.
Jasmine closed her eyes for a second, a shudder running through her. When she opened them again, the apology was already pouring out, raw and unfiltered. "Thank God, Bruce. Thank God." She swallowed painfully. "I’m so sorry, Bruce. So fucking sorry." Her voice cracked again. "I took everything... everything you gave me... this life, your love, the family... I took it all for granted. And I... I ate it like poison. I let it fester inside me. That jealousy... it rotted me." Her tears flowed freely now. "And I took it out on Lena. I hit her." She looked directly at Lena over Bruce’s shoulder, her expression one of utter devastation. "It was all my fault. Everything. I’m so sorry. Everyone." Her voice dropped to a broken whisper. "I just... I want you all to know that. Before..." She trailed off, her energy fading, her bandaged hand trembling slightly on the sheet.
The silence in the room was profound, heavy with the weight of her confession and the sterile hum of the machines. The other wives – Camille, Mystique, Erika, Sophia, Ketut – stood clustered just outside the door, faces etched with a complex mix of shock, sorrow, and residual anger. Lena’s grip on Bruce’s arm tightened almost painfully.
Bruce finally moved. He took two shaky steps towards the bed. The distance felt like miles. He reached out a trembling hand, his calloused fingers brushing a damp strand of hair from Jasmine’s forehead. Her skin was cool beneath his touch. The gesture, so simple, unleashed a fresh torrent of sobs from her.
"Shhh," he murmured, his own voice thick. "Just... rest, Jazz. Don't try to talk." He lowered himself slowly onto the edge of the hard plastic chair beside the bed. His large frame seemed to dwarf the fragile space.
Jasmine’s hand, the unbandaged one, twitched on the sheet. Her fingers sought his. Bruce hesitated for only a fractured second before enclosing her cold, thin hand in both of his warm, powerful ones. He brought it to his lips, pressing a kiss to her knuckles. A raw, animal sound escaped him – part groan, part sigh of utter exhaustion and unresolved grief.
He looked up at Lena, his swirling hazel eyes a turbulent sea of conflicting emotions – profound relief warring with deep-seated pain, the fierce protectiveness he felt for Lena clashing with the overwhelming love he still carried for the broken woman whose hand he held. Lena met his gaze, her own dark eyes shimmering with unshed tears. She gave a tiny, almost imperceptible nod. It’s okay. Be with her.
Bruce turned back to Jasmine. Her eyes were drifting shut again, the sedatives pulling her under, but her fingers clung weakly to his. The tension that had held him rigid since the hospital call began to seep away, leaving behind a bone-deep weariness and a terrifying vulnerability. The sterile room, the beeping machines, the distant sounds of the hospital faded. There was only the fragile warmth of Jasmine’s hand in his, the rhythmic rise and fall of her chest beneath the thin sheet, and the suffocating silence filled with everything left unsaid, everything broken, and the faintest, perilous flicker of something that might, just might, be the beginning of a path back. The leaden grey in his eyes slowly swirled, touched now by flecks of exhausted gold and the deep, uncertain blue of a storm receding. He rested his forehead gently against their clasped hands, his breath shuddering out in a long, unsteady sigh. The fight was momentarily over, replaced by the quiet, aching vigil.
The fight was momentarily over, replaced by the quiet, aching vigil. Bruce kept his forehead pressed against Jasmine’s fragile hand, her knuckles cool against his skin, the rhythmic beep of the monitor a fragile lifeline in the sterile silence. He breathed in the antiseptic sting, his broad shoulders hunched with exhaustion. Lena remained a warm, grounding presence behind his chair, her hand resting lightly on his back. Outside the door, the hushed whispers of Camille, Erika, Mystique, Sophia, and Ketut formed a low, worried hum against the hospital’s ambient noise.
Minutes stretched, thick and suffocating. Jasmine’s shallow breathing, the only sign of life beyond the machines, seemed terrifyingly faint. Bruce lifted his head slowly, his swirling hazel eyes – still churning grey and storm-blue, flecked with exhausted gold – fixed on her pallid face. He traced the line of her jaw with a calloused fingertip, remembering the fierce defiance that used to blaze in those closed green eyes, the way she’d arch that incredible ass back onto his cock, demanding, "Fuck it harder, Bruce! Own this black pussy!" The memory was a physical ache, twisting sharply in his gut. She didn’t deserve this hollow stillness. His thumb brushed her cracked lower lip, a ghost of past kisses.
The abrupt swish of the door shattered the fragile quiet. A man in a white coat entered, stethoscope draped around his neck, his expression professionally composed but carrying an underlying gravity. He glanced at the cluster of stunning women by the door, then focused on Bruce still hunched over Jasmine's bed. "Mr. Thorne? I'm Dr. Aris, Jasmine's attending physician." His voice was calm, measured. "May I update you?"
Bruce jerked upright, instantly alert, the weariness replaced by sharp tension radiating through his frame. Lena’s hand tightened on his shoulder. "Yes. Now." Bruce’s voice was gravel, low and urgent. He didn’t take his eyes off the doctor. "Tell me." Behind him, the wives pressed closer to the doorway, their collective anxiety thickening the air.
Dr. Aris consulted a tablet. Dubois was admitted approximately six hours ago following a significant self-harm event involving deep lacerations to her left wrist." He spoke clinically, but his eyes held empathy. "She lost a substantial amount of blood. We’ve stabilized her vitals, repaired the vascular damage, and initiated transfusion." He paused, his gaze assessing Bruce’s reaction. "She’s critical but stable. The next twenty-four hours are crucial for monitoring infection and ensuring no further complications arise neurologically from the blood loss. Her mental state upon admission was extremely distressed."
The words landed like hammer blows. Deep lacerations. Substantial blood loss. Neurological complications. Bruce felt Lena’s nails dig into his shoulder through his shirt. The image of Jasmine’s bandaged wrist pulsed in his mind, grotesquely vivid now. "Will she..." Bruce swallowed hard, the question catching in his raw throat. "Is she going to be alright? Physically?" His knuckles were white where he gripped the armrest of the plastic chair.
"The physical prognosis is cautiously optimistic with vigilant care," Dr. Aris stated, meeting Bruce’s intense gaze. "We’ve controlled the bleeding and addressed the immediate trauma. The psychological aspect... that’s the greater concern long-term." He glanced towards Jasmine’s still form. "She expressed profound regret and fear before sedation. Her state of mind was... fragile. Desperate." He paused again. "She clearly has significant support," he added, gesturing subtly towards the wives. "That will be vital. She’ll require constant supervision upon discharge, both physical and psychiatric."
Bruce nodded stiffly, the information processing slowly through the fog of shock and residual fury. Jasmine’s desperation, her texts ignored... the guilt twisted sharper. "When can she leave?" The question was automatic, the need to get her out of this sterile tomb overwhelming.
"Not for several days, possibly a week," Dr. Aris replied. "We need to ensure stability, manage the wound, and initiate psychiatric evaluation. We’ll know more tomorrow." He offered a brief, professional nod. "I’ll check back later. The nurse can page me if there’s any immediate change." He moved quietly towards the door, leaving the weight of his words hanging heavy in the small room.
Silence descended again, heavier than before. Bruce slumped back in the chair, running a trembling hand over his face. The doctor’s confirmation of Jasmine’s fragile state, the sheer depth of her despair, felt like a physical blow to his chest. Lena knelt beside him, her dark eyes searching his. "Papi?" Her voice was soft, thick with shared pain.
"We bring her home," Bruce stated, the words rough but absolute. He looked at Camille, standing just inside the doorway now, her expression strained. "Camille. Arrange it. The east guest suite. Staff. Security. Private nursing. Whatever she needs. Full psychiatric care brought in." His gaze swept over Erika, Mystique, Sophia, Ketut, their faces reflecting variations of shock and concern. "She’s coming home."
Camille nodded immediately, already pulling out her phone, her fingers flying over the screen, her usual composure tight-lipped but efficient. "Done, Bruce. I’ll handle everything."
Jasmine stirred then, a low moan escaping her lips. Her eyelids fluttered open, bleary and disoriented. Her unfocused gaze landed on Bruce, then drifted to Lena beside him. A fresh tear leaked from the corner of her eye, tracing a path down her temple. "Home?" she rasped, the word barely audible above the monitor’s beep. "You mean...?"
Bruce leaned forward, capturing her searching gaze. "Yes, Jazz," he murmured, his voice thick. "You’re coming home." He squeezed her hand gently. "To us."
A fragile sob escaped her. "Bruce... I..." Her eyes darted to Lena again, filled with a silent, agonized plea for forgiveness. Lena held her gaze steadily, her own expression unreadable for a moment, then gave the tiniest nod. Not absolution, not yet, but a fragile acknowledgment. Jasmine’s eyes closed again, a single tear clinging to her lash, exhaustion pulling her back under. Her hand remained limp in Bruce’s grasp, a fragile bird.
Bruce watched her sleep, the doctor’s words echoing: Profound regret. Fear. Fragile. Desperate. The anger, the betrayal – they hadn’t vanished. They coiled inside him, cold and hard, but they were momentarily drowned by the vast, terrifying ocean of seeing her broken, of knowing she’d tried to erase herself. He needed to feel something else. Anything else. He needed to feel alive, needed to bury this suffocating dread in sensation. He stood abruptly, the plastic chair scraping harshly on the floor. "Camille, coordinate with the hospital. Keep me updated hourly." His voice was tight with suppressed tension. "Lena. We’re leaving. Now." He didn't wait for responses. He strode past the other wives, his movements sharp, purposeful, radiating a desperate energy that demanded release. Lena followed instantly, falling into step just behind him, her presence an unquestioned anchor.
The drive back to the villa was a silent pressure cooker. Bruce drove the SUV himself this time, his hands gripping the wheel with white-knuckled intensity, jaw clenched, eyes fixed on the dark, winding road. The lush Balinese night, heavy with the scent of tropical blooms and damp earth, felt oppressive. Lena sat beside him, radiating calm vigilance, but the air between them crackled with his unspent turmoil. The villa gates swung open. He parked haphazardly, engine off, and was out of the car before it had fully settled, striding towards the main entrance. Lena was right on his heels. The other wives followed more slowly, gathering in the grand foyer, exchanging worried glances as Bruce and Lena disappeared down the candle-lit corridor towards their private wing.
He didn't speak. He just grabbed Lena the moment they were inside their spacious bedroom, the scent of jasmine and sandalwood thick in the air. He spun her around, pressing her back against the cool teak door, his body pinning hers. His kiss wasn't tender; it was a savage claiming, his tongue forcing past her lips, demanding, consuming. Lena moaned into his mouth, her hands instantly tangling in his hair, pulling him closer, meeting his ferocity with her own wild hunger. "Fucking need you, Papi," she gasped against his mouth, her voice thick with arousal and understanding. "Take it. Take it all out on me."
Bruce growled, a low, feral sound ripped from deep in his chest. His hands yanked at the thin straps of her sundress, tearing the fabric in his haste. It pooled around her ankles, revealing her naked, sculpted body – the small, perfect tits, the impossibly tight waist flaring into the full, round ass he worshipped, the ass he’d crowned the best. He devoured the sight, the raw physicality of her a stark contrast to Jasmine’s terrifying fragility. "Turn around," he ordered, his voice ragged. "Hands on the door. Spread those fucking legs. Show me that fat ass."
Lena obeyed instantly, a shiver of pure anticipation running through her. She turned, planting her palms flat against the smooth wood, bending forward slightly, presenting herself. Her thick, dark ass cheeks framed the slick, glistening pink of her exposed pussy. "It's yours, Papi," she breathed, looking back over her shoulder, her eyes dark with lust. "All yours. Fucking wreck it."
Bruce didn’t hesitate. He fumbled with his belt, his movements rough, desperate. His thick cock sprang free, already fully erect and pulsing, the flushed head glistening with pre-cum. He spat roughly into his palm, slicking his length, then pressed the swollen tip against Lena’s dripping entrance. "Take it," he grunted, his voice thick with need and barely contained anguish. "Take every fucking inch."
He shoved forward, burying himself inside her with one brutal, deep thrust. Lena cried out, a sharp, guttural sound of intense pleasure-pain as her tight cunt stretched around his invading girth. "Oh GOD! YES! Fuck! So deep!" Her fingers scrabbled against the door.
Bruce set a punishing rhythm immediately, gripping her hips hard enough to bruise, driving into her with deep, powerful strokes that slammed her body against the solid wood with each thrust. The wet, obscene sound of flesh slapping flesh filled the room, mingling with Lena’s high, keening moans and Bruce’s guttural grunts. He fucked her with single-minded intensity, each savage plunge an attempt to obliterate the images of Jasmine’s bandaged wrist, her pallid face, the doctor’s grim words. "Fucking tight cunt," he snarled, pulling her hips back hard onto his cock. "Squeeze that hot little pussy, baby. Milk this fucking cock."
Lena pushed back against him, meeting his thrusts with equal ferocity. "Harder, Papi! Fuck me harder! Split me open!" She reached back, gripping his powerful thigh, her nails digging in. "Make me forget! Use me! Fucking BREAK ME!" Her ass jiggled with the force of his pounding, the sight driving him wilder. He leaned over her, one hand sliding around to roughly pinch and twist her nipple, the other gripping her throat, not choking, but claiming.
He slammed into her cervix, making her scream. The raw, desperate energy pouring out of him was overwhelming, intoxicating. He fucked her like he wanted to disappear inside her, lose himself completely in the slick, clenching heat, the physical proof of life and vitality beneath his hands. The world narrowed to the feel of her cunt gripping him, the sound of her ecstatic cries, the sweat dripping down his back, the frantic need to come, to explode, to purge the poison.
"Gonna fill this greedy pussy," Bruce growled, his rhythm becoming frantic, erratic. His balls tightened, slapping against her clit. "Gonna pump this fucking cum so deep inside you!"
"Yes! YES! Give it to me!" Lena shrieked, her body bowing under his onslaught, her own climax ripping through her as her inner walls convulsed violently around his pistoning cock. "FUCK! BRUCE! I'M COMING! OH GOD I'M COMING ON YOUR DICK!"
Bruce roared as Lena’s pussy clamped down on him like a vise, milking him. He buried himself to the hilt, grinding hard as the first thick, hot jet erupted from his cock, flooding her tight channel. Pulse after pulse followed, a seemingly endless torrent, pumping his seed deep inside her trembling body. He collapsed forward over her, his chest heaving against her back, his forehead pressed between her shoulder blades, his cock still twitching, still buried deep as he emptied himself completely. The brutal tension drained out of him, leaving behind a hollowed-out exhaustion and the lingering thrum of raw, physical release.
Lena shuddered beneath him, gasping for air, her legs trembling. She reached back weakly, her hand finding his hair, stroking it gently. "I've got you, Papi," she whispered, her voice hoarse. "I've always got you." They stayed locked together, leaning against the door, breathing raggedly in the aftermath. The silence that followed wasn't peaceful; it was the fragile quiet after a storm, the air still charged with the echoes of desperation and the distant, unresolved thunder of Jasmine’s fate. Bruce closed his eyes, the taste of salt – sweat or tears, he couldn't tell – on his lips. The villa felt vast and silent around them, holding its breath.