35. Declan

THIRTY-FIVE

DECLAN

Rage explodes in my chest the second I see that bastard lick Savion's face in the video. Brock. The same psycho who tried to kill him four years ago. I can barely breathe, my heart hammering against my ribs like it's trying to tear its way out.

When Savion first mentioned the retrial, I hadn't pushed for details, not wanting to dredge up old wounds. But the urge to wrap my hands around the fucker who wanted to murder the love of my life and curiosity to at least know who he is clawed at me, refusing to let go. Unbeknownst to Savion, I googled his name. It only took seconds before a flood of articles and court documents filled my screen. The most recent ones were about us but it was the older ones that ripped me apart.

There was this picture… side by side, before the acid attack and after. I couldn't stop staring. Savion's face from before was so perfect, so unscarred, and yet… He's still perfect. Tears had burned my eyes. He was beautiful then, and he's fucking beautiful now. Brock stole pieces of him, left marks on his skin that'll never fade, but he didn't steal who Savion is . No one can touch that.

Since that day, Brock's face has been seared into my brain, etched like a scar I can't get rid of, just from those damned photos. The sight of him, even in a grainy video, makes my stomach twist so hard I might puke. My hands shake as I watch, helpless, as that monster gets near him.

Not again.

"I'm going to fucking kill him."

The words explode out of me before I can think. My fists are clenched so tight my nails bite into my palms, but the pain barely registers. All I can think about is Savion. Brock. That sick fuck violating him.

"Dec, wait up!" Lennon's voice cuts through the haze for a second, but not enough to slow me down. He grabs my arm, firm but cautious, like he knows I'm a second away from snapping.

"What the hell's going on, man?" His voice is calm, but I can hear the edge of panic. "This isn't like you."

I yank my arm free, my chest heaving. "Brock," I snarl, the name tasting like poison. "That psycho—he's got Savvy." The fear in my voice is jagged. "He fucking kidnapped him."

"What?" Jazz yells.

He and Lars–still holding my phone–are right behind Lennon now, their faces mirroring the same shock. They must've followed us out of the meeting room, but I don't have time for this. Every second that ticks by feels like a countdown to disaster.

I grit my teeth, trying to hold myself together. "That crazy son of a bitch is the one who attacked Savion. Now, he's got him again." My whole body's shaking, adrenaline surging through me, making it hard to think straight. The need to punch something—anything—is overwhelming.

"How do you know?" Lennon looks me directly in the eyes.

"I don't have time to explain," I snap. "I need to get to him." I spin on my heels and stalk to my car.

Footsteps echo behind me, quick and heavy, but I'm not stopping. Not for anyone.

"I'm going with you," Jazz says, his voice strained.

"We're all going," Lars adds, his tone leaving no room for argument. He hands me back my phone.

Hank yells something behind us but it doesn't matter. Nothing matters except getting to Savion.

My fingers tremble as I dial 911, the phone slick in my sweaty grip. I don't trust the cops—haven't for as long as I can remember.

When you're a ten-year-old boy knocking on your neighbor's door—who just happens to wear a badge—and telling him your dad's hurting your mom, and he shrugs it off like it's nothing? You learn quick that help isn't coming. When you're eleven and you try again, begging that same cop to step in, and he turns away for the second time? You start to lose hope. By the time you hit twelve, you stop asking altogether. You learn that the people who are supposed to protect you just don't give a damn.

And I'm still that boy, but grown. Forty-two years old, and I still don't trust a single one of them. Especially now.

I grit my teeth, the taste of bitter memories flooding my mouth like copper. But this isn't about me. This is about Savion.

Savion, who's been hurt—nearly killed—by Brock. The thought of relying on the police to help him, to save him when I couldn't, makes my skin crawl. My jaw tightens, muscles locking as if my body's rejecting the very idea.

But I do it anyway.

For him.

Finally, the operator picks up. "911, what's your emergency?"

"My boyfriend's been kidnapped," I blurt out, the words tumbling over themselves in my desperation. "He was kidnapped by a guy named Brock Turner."

"Sir, I need you to stay calm," the operator says, way too calmly. "What's your name and location?"

"Declan Mercer." I spit out my location and the last place Savion was supposed to be. But who the fuck knows? For all I know, he never even made it home. Didn't answer my calls. Didn't respond to my texts. A knot tightens in my chest. This is my fault. If I hadn't been headed to that useless meeting, I could've driven him home. I could've kept him safe.

"Sir? Are you still there?"

Shit. I've zoned out. "Yeah, sorry," I mutter. "What did you say?"

"What's your boyfriend's name?" the operator repeats, slower this time.

"His name's Savion Hayes," I grind out, every word laced with frustration. "He was kidnapped by a fucking psychopath." My hands are shaking so bad I almost drop the phone. "Please, just get someone there. Fast."

"We're dispatching units to 306 Cater Road now," the operator assures me.

"Thank you." I barely get the words out before ending the call, the weight of it all crashing down on me. The cops are on their way, but it still doesn't feel like enough. Nothing will feel like enough until I get to Savion and know he's alive.

Lennon, Jazz, and Lars have already piled into the car, their eyes trained on me. Concern. Fear. Determination. But no one says a word.

"You've got to calm down, man," Lennon says finally, his voice soft but firm. "They're handling it."

I grit my teeth, gripping the wheel until my knuckles turn white. The police? Handling it? I've never trusted them, and I'm not about to start now. But Lennon's right—there's nothing more we can do right this second, so I nod, even though every instinct in me is screaming to do something. Anything.

"Yeah, we need to get to his apartment," Jazz says, leaning forward in his seat, tension radiating off him.

I don't say a word, just slam the car into gear and tear out of the parking lot. The speedometer climbs, but I can't slow down. Not now. Not when Savion's life is on the line. If the cops want to pull me over, fine. Let them try. Because I'm not stopping.

Nothing and no one is going to keep me from getting to him. Not Brock. Not the cops. Not even God himself.