34. Savion

THIRTY-FOUR

SAVION

My body's heavy, every muscle screaming like I've been beaten with a sledgehammer. What the hell happened? My eyelids feel like sandpaper, dragging open in slow motion, but even that small effort sends a jolt of pain through my skull.

Everything's a blur, my mind sluggish, like I'm crawling out of a deep, murky fog. I can't think straight. Where am I?

Darkness presses in, swallowing everything. I try to move, but the rough bite of rope against my wrists stops me cold. My heart stumbles, then races, thundering in my chest. I shift my legs, and a wave of panic slams into me as I realize—they're bound too.

Why am I tied up?

The question lodges in my throat, but when I try to scream, no sound comes out. My throat burns as if I've swallowed glass. What the hell? Why can't I speak? My pulse spikes, a sharp pounding in my temples. My body thrashes instinctively, fighting against the restraints, but I only manage to squirm. I'm trapped. No room to move. Barely enough air.

A tremor runs through the floor beneath me, vibrating through my bones. It's not just me shaking—the whole space is moving. I listen—really listen. Tires hum against pavement. Wind whistles past. I'm in a car.

The realization slams into me. I'm in the fucking trunk of a car.

How did this happen? My brain's a mess, swimming with jagged, disjointed images that slip away the harder I reach for them. Nothing makes sense. Think, Savion. Think.

A white-hot spike of pain shoots through my skull, making me wince. Fuck. I can't. Can't focus. The more I try to put the pieces together, the more they fall apart.

Sweat beads on my forehead. Who did this? I think of Declan—of his face when he kissed me goodbye. He knows I'm missing by now, right? He's probably tearing the world apart to find me. But what if?—?

Those calls that I brushed off as pranks?

Was there something more sinister behind them?

A deranged fan of his?

What if it's Brock?

My gut twists. If it's him, I'm screwed. I'd rather face a mob of angry fans than come face to face with him again. Not after what he did.

But it can't be him. He's in prison.

If he was released, Mr. Roberts, my lawyer, would have been notified.

The floor beneath me jolts, sending me sprawling backward, my head smacking against cold metal. I bite back a groan, but my vision swims. Whoever's driving hit that bump on purpose. They know I'm awake.

I need to get out of here. Now.

I fumble, my bound hands slipping into the pocket of my hoodie. My fingers search frantically for my phone, for anything—but there's nothing. Of course. Whoever did this was thorough. Bastard took my phone. Took everything.

For a moment, I freeze, breathing hard, trying to remember anything useful—something I've read about escaping from a trunk. Isn't there a trick?

Nothing. My mind's blank. Useless.

Panic grips my throat, and I choke down the urge to scream again, even though no sound will come. God, what did they do to me?

I slam my fists against the roof of the trunk, my bound wrists bruising with each hit. I keep at it, harder, faster. Maybe someone will hear. Maybe?—

The car screeches to a sudden stop, throwing me forward, face-first into the coarse fabric. Everything goes still. Too still.

My breath catches. The engine cuts off. Silence. Except for the dull thudding of my heart, the beat so loud it drowns out everything else. I strain my ears, listening. The car door creaks open. Gravel crunches under heavy footsteps, moving toward me, slow and deliberate.

No, no, no.

I push myself back, retreating as far as I can, my back pressed against the hard wall of the trunk. The footsteps stop. Keys jangle, slicing through the silence.

The trunk clicks. Light floods in, blinding me. I flinch, instinctively throwing my arms over my face to block the burning sun. My wrists ache where the ropes dig into raw skin.

For a long moment, there's nothing but the sound of the wind rustling and my heart slamming against my ribs.

Then, a voice.

"Miss me?"

The sound sends ice through my veins. Slowly, I lower my arms, squinting through the light.

Brock.

He stands there, watching me with that twisted smile. "It's been, what, four years? And you don't have anything to say to me?"

My stomach churns, fear turning my blood to ice. I can't speak. Even if I could, what would I say to the man who destroyed my life?

And now he's back to finish the job.

My skin turns clammy, and sweat trickles down my spine. I can feel my worst nightmare pulling me under, inch by inch.

I squint, the sun burning my eyes, as I try to make out his face. Brock. His features have changed—hardened. His once-smooth skin is now rough and weathered, lines cutting deep into his face, giving him an almost gaunt look. Prison must've really done a number on him. He used to be so polished, always the picture of wealth and privilege, skin practically glowing from expensive skincare products. Now, his sharp jawline looks like it could cut glass, but not in a good way. His dark eyes are even colder now, like there's nothing human left behind them. His once immaculate hair is unkempt, shaggy, and dirty-blonde. The boy I grew up with looks older, meaner...scarier.

How the hell is he here, in LA? He's supposed to be in New York, far, far away from me. Did he travel all this way just to find me? That's over 2,000 miles. I mentally run through the math—a two-day drive, minimum, or a five-hour flight. The realization tightens like a vice around my chest. He didn't just stumble upon me; he came for me.

A surge of nausea rolls through me. How did I misjudge him so completely? Someone I've known since we were kids... How did I not see what he was capable of? The thought has been gnawing at me for years now, and still, no answers.

"What do you want from me?" I manage to ask, though my voice cracks, betraying the fear clawing at my throat. It's barely audible, but somehow I get the words out.

Brock doesn't even acknowledge my question. His lips curl into a smirk that makes my stomach churn. "Playtime's over," he says coolly, and I finally notice the roll of duct tape he's been holding. His fingers flex around it like it's a weapon.

Panic rises fast, almost choking me. "Help! Somebody—help!" I yell, but my voice comes out thin, strangled by fear. Even if I screamed my lungs out, no one would hear me. We're in the middle of nowhere.

He takes his time, smirking at my useless attempt to call for help. Then, like it's nothing, he slaps the tape over my mouth, and I feel like I'm suffocating. The stickiness burns against my skin, sealing my scream inside.

He tries to drag me out of the trunk, but I thrash, kicking my legs, pushing against him, fighting like hell. His hands are strong, rough, as they grip me harder, trying to pin me down.

His eyes narrow, and the playful smirk disappears. "This is no time for games, Golden Boy," he growls, using the nickname he's called me since we were kids. The name that once made me feel safe now sends a violent shiver of disgust crawling over my skin.

I freeze. I know what he's capable of. Fighting him will only make it worse. My body submits, going limp as he yanks me from the trunk.

"There we go. Good boy." His voice is laced with mock affection as he pats my back, and I swallow down the bile rising in my throat.

The wind kicks up, cold against my damp skin, ruffling my hair as he loops his arm through mine, pulling me close. The scent of his sweat mixes with the salt in the air, and I want to pull away, but I don't dare move. His touch sends a spike of revulsion through me, the pressure of his arm like a steel chain locking me in place. My stomach tightens, and I feel like I might throw up right here.

To anyone passing by, we'd look like two lovers strolling side by side. The thought is sickening.

Minutes pass in agonizing silence as we walk. My mind races, jumping from one horrific scenario to another. What's his plan? Last time he used acid. God, what is he going to do this time? My skin prickles with the memory, and I force the thought away, trying not to drown in fear.

We take several turns, the rocky path beneath us becoming more difficult with each step. Suddenly, we're standing before a tall fence. My breath catches when I realize what he expects me to do. No way. There's no way I'm climbing that.

I shake my head, eyes wide, backing away.

But he lets go of my arm and points to a small opening in the fence. "Go," he orders, his voice hard as stone.

I hesitate for a second, then sigh and crouch down, squeezing through the gap. The cold metal scrapes against my skin as I slip through. Brock follows, moving easily.

On the other side stands a building—an old, crumbling factory, its paint peeling and faded, roof sagging in on itself. Rusted machines loom through the broken windows. My gut twists with dread. How the hell does he know about this place?

Brock doesn't give me time to think. His hand clamps around my arm again, dragging me inside. The air is stale and thick with dust as we move through room after room. Everything feels like it's closing in around me.

Finally, we stop in a room with no doors. Light filters in through cracked windows, casting eerie shadows on the floor. There's a backpack, two chairs, and a few empty cans scattered around.

Brock shoves a chair into the center of the room. "Sit," he commands.

I obey without hesitation, sinking into the chair, my muscles tight with fear. Maybe if I don't piss him off, he'll let me go. It's a fool's hope, but it's all I've got.

He opens his bag and pulls out a length of rope. My heart pounds as he starts tying me to the chair, the rope digging into my wrists. I try to mumble something against the duct tape, but it comes out garbled. He tightens the knot, but when I shift in discomfort, he loosens it a bit. The small gesture of concern sends a shiver down my spine. Sick bastard.

Brock's lips curl into a wicked grin as he saunters over, slow and deliberate, like he's savoring this moment. His fingers, cold and rough, trace the curve of my left cheek. "Oh Golden Boy," he whispers, his voice like poison in my ears. "I missed you a lot."

The touch of his fingers sends ice-cold revulsion crawling over my skin. Every nerve screams to pull away, but I can't. I'm frozen, paralyzed with disgust. Then, he does it. His tongue drags across my scars, leaving a trail of wet heat in its wake. My stomach lurches, bile rising in my throat. I clench my eyes shut, trying to block out the horror, praying for it to end. He notices, of course. Of course, he does. He always notices.

A sharp shove against my chest rips my eyes open.

Brock's grin grows wider. Sick. Predatory.

Without warning, he grips my shirt and yanks, tearing the fabric clean from my body. The air hits my bare skin, sharp and cold.

I scream, the sound a desperate, broken plea—but it's swallowed by the duct tape strapped across my mouth. The muffled noise only seems to amuse him, like my suffering is the best kind of joke. His laughter booms in the room, bouncing off the walls, suffocating me.

And that's when I see it—the phone in his hand. Recording. He's been filming this. This whole time.

He strolls back to the chair on the other side of the room, his eyes glued to the screen, typing something. On my phone.

What the hell is he doing?

His phone rings. "What do you mean?" he barks into the phone. "I paid you twice the amount for that boat. No more excuses!"

Boat? My pulse skyrockets. Does he plan to take me away by boat? God, no. If he gets me on that water, I'm dead. No one will ever find me.

"Be here in an hour, or you're done," he snarls, tossing his phone to the floor. It clatters loudly but he doesn't even check to see if it's broken.

I send a desperate prayer to anyone listening—Declan, find me. Please, someone, find me before it's too late.

He relaxes into the chair and closes his eyes. I'm assuming he's taking a nap. He's sure not praying. Men like him don't have the capacity to pray to a god. They believe they are God.

I watch his chest rise and fall in a steady rhythm. Asleep. Thank God. It's my chance.

But I can't risk moving the chair. If it scrapes against the floor, it'll wake him up, and I'm not sure I can survive another one of his twisted tantrums. My pulse quickens, and my body feels like it's buzzing with a nervous energy. Crawling might work. I drop to my knees, hands bound behind me, awkward and unbalanced. My palms press into the cold floor as I clench my jaw and try to inch forward.

Come on, Savion. You can do this.

The strain in my thighs builds, but my knees shake. It's no good. I pitch sideways, the chair topples, and I hit the ground with a loud thud. The noise echoes in the quiet room, and I freeze, blood draining from my face. The world seems to slow down as dread coils tight in my chest.

Please don't wake up. Please.

A low groan breaks the silence. My heart drops as Brock sits upright, his eyes locking onto me. My pulse races, faster, erratic. Why the hell is he smiling?

I try to scramble back to the position he left me in, chest heaving, dust clinging to my skin. But I failed. His laugh pierces the air, sharp and cold, and it chills me more than anything else he's done. It sounds insane, too loud for the tiny room. Like he's lost in some sick joke that only he understands.

"Where do you think you're going, Golden Boy?" His voice slithers through the space, thick with amusement as he pushes himself up. Each step he takes sends a tremor through me.

I don't move. Can't. My knees press hard against the floor, trembling as I beg him silently with my eyes. Let me go. Just let me go. Haven't you done enough?

Sweat clings to my skin, cold and slick. My breath catches as Brock towers over me, his shadow swallowing me whole. He grabs me roughly, hauling me back into the chair, his fingers bruising against my arms. The world tilts, and my body feels disconnected, like I'm floating somewhere outside of myself.

He reaches for his backpack, and when he turns back to me, something gleams in his hand.

A knife.

The sharp edge catches the dim light, glinting, and terror claws at my insides. My throat tightens, and a ragged, broken sound escapes me before I can stop it. He's going to kill me. This is it. My heart hammers against my ribs, a frantic rhythm that drowns out everything else.

"You were supposed to fall in love with me !"

I freeze.

"How could you choose Haley over me?" Brock's voice drips with venom, his grip on the knife tightening.

What? Haley?

"Over me, Savion?" He pounds his fist against his chest, the sound hollow and desperate.

This is… This is what he's been holding onto all this time? Haley was… God, how did I not see this coming?

Brock continues to rant but I can barely hear him over the blood rushing in my ears. My mind races, piecing together fragments of the past. I thought we were friends. But to him? To him, we were something else. All those times he had my back. All those late-night talks… to him, I wasn't just a friend. He wanted more.

He stomps his feet, jerking me out of the time warp I'd found myself, his voice shaking now. "I was there for you. Always. And you chose her ."

Brock and I… we were never more than friends. At least, I never saw it that way. How did I miss this? How did I not see him unraveling for all those years? I thought he was looking out for me.

I was so fucking blind.

His voice rises, shaking me from my thoughts. "And now you're fucking a rockstar?" Spit flies from his lips, and his eyes burn with something wild. "A rockstar, Savion? He's going to ruin you like Haley did."

Declan. He's talking about Declan. I flinch, the weight of Brock's words crushing down on me. The blade dances in his hand, his grip erratic, unstable. He doesn't even care about hiding it anymore.

"You want to be some rockstar's whore?" Brock's voice softens, a terrifying contrast to the anger in his eyes. He leans closer, the blade still gleaming between us. I shake my head, a frantic denial that does nothing to calm him.

He laughs again, that same cold, chilling sound. "You deserve better. You deserve me. No one will love you like I can."

The knife hovers over my skin, gleaming under the dim light like a blade of death waiting to claim me. My pulse roars in my ears, so loud it drowns out everything else. The world blurs at the edges, spots of darkness closing in as my breath comes in ragged bursts. He's going to cut me. He's going to kill me. And I'm helpless to stop it.

But then something inside me snaps.

The fear I've carried for so long—the terror he's fed on—turns into a white-hot rage. I'm sick of being scared. I'm sick of Brock thinking he owns me, of him controlling my life with his twisted obsession.

I'm not dying like this. Not without a fight.

I find my voice, jagged and raw. "You don't know the first thing about love." My words come out harsh, scraping my throat like sandpaper. His eyes narrow, and for a split second, I think he's going to lunge at me. But he doesn't. He freezes.

"You think this is love?" I keep going, pushing past the panic clawing at my chest. "What you're doing right now—this isn't love, Brock. You don't get to hurt someone and call it love."

His face twitches, and the knife dips lower. My skin tingles where the cold metal grazes it, but I don't stop.

"Now that I think about it, you always made everything about you. Everything ." I spit the words like venom, like they've been trapped inside me for too long. "Back then, in court, you twisted it all around. Made yourself the victim. But we both know the truth, don't we?" I meet his eyes, refusing to flinch. "I was always kind to you… a good friend to you. I never hurt you. You… you were jealous of Haley. I suspected as much, but I doubted myself. Thought you just needed time to get used to Haley and me being engaged. You were the one who turned on me like I was the one who betrayed you. I didn't betray you, Brock ," I spit out his name. "You did that to me."

His breathing deepens, nostrils flaring, and I can see the rage simmering just beneath the surface. It's like a bomb waiting to go off, but I can't stop now. I won't .

"We were never what you thought we were, Brock. And that's on you, not me." My heart slams against my ribs, but I force myself to stay calm, to speak every word with precision.

His fingers tighten around the handle of the knife, his knuckles white. But he stays silent, and I realize with a jolt of clarity that he's actually listening. I take a breath, steadying myself.

"You never loved me," I say, my voice quieter now, but no less fierce. "You loved the idea of owning me. Of controlling me. You wanted to possess me, not care for me. That's not love—it's manipulation. It's abuse."

Something flickers in his eyes, something dark and twisted that only feeds my anger.

I want him to hear every word. To feel the weight of everything he's done—everything he's taken from me.

"You wanted me to be yours but you were too much of a coward to tell me that. And when I fell in love with someone else, you couldn't handle it. You never had me, Brock, and you never will."

The knife presses a little harder, and I can feel the sting as the blade threatens to cut. My pulse spikes, but I refuse to let the fear drown out my voice.

"You might think you have power over me, but you don't. Not anymore."

His jaw clenches, the muscle ticking with the strain of his barely-contained rage. The silence between us is thick, suffocating, but I don't stop.

"I'm not scared of you anymore." I don't know if that's true, but right now, I need it to be. "You think you own me? You think you can mark me like I'm some kind of possession?" I swallow hard, my throat tight. "You don't know the first thing about love because you've never let yourself feel it. Love isn't ownership. It isn't about forcing someone to bend to your will."

My voice cracks, but I push on, the words tumbling out like they've been trapped inside for years. "Love is sacrifice, Brock. It's letting go when it's what's best for the other person. It's not about power or control. You want to own me, but all you've ever done is destroy what we could have been."

His grip on the knife falters just a bit, and I know I've struck something deep. For the first time, there's a flicker of doubt in his eyes.

"You don't own me," I say, each word deliberate, like a blow to the twisted fantasy he's built around us. "You never did."

I can feel the shift in the air between us, the tension coiling tighter, like something's about to snap. His face hardens, and for a moment, I brace for the worst. But I don't care anymore.

"You belong to me, Golden Boy," Brock whispers, his breath hot against my skin as he leans down. His finger trails along my cheek, the touch nauseating. "I'm going to sign my name right here." The knife glints as it hovers, the sharp edge teasing my skin.

My heart pounds so loud I swear he can hear it. Spots dance at the edges of my vision, black dots that grow larger with each panicked breath.

He's going to cut me.

He's going to kill me.