37. Declan

THIRTY-SEVEN

DECLAN

We've been driving for about forty-five minutes when all our phones start pinging at once. The sound is relentless. My chest tightens as I exchange glances with the guys. This can't be good. Notifications like this? They usually mean something's gone to shit.

Lennon, sitting next to me in the front passenger seat, picks up his phone and goes quiet.

"Fuck!" Lars's outburst cuts through the air.

My stomach drops, hollow and heavy. "What the hell's going on?"

"I'm sorry, man. I don't know how this happened." Jazz's voice wavers with an apology I don't want to hear.

My throat's tight, my pulse pounding. "What are you saying?" I shoot a quick look at Jazz through the rearview mirror. He's undoing the top button of his shirt, rubbing the back of his neck. It's a bad sign—my legs feel like they're about to give out. I pull over, knowing whatever's coming has to do with Savion. It has to.

Lennon hands me his phone, and the second I see the screen, my world implodes.

It's the video. The one of Savion tied to the chair. But now, the whole damn world is seeing it.

On X.

Everyone. Everywhere.

Fuck, fuck, FUCK!

There's no describing how it hits me. I stumble out of the car and collapse to my knees, my fists slamming into the dirt. A guttural scream rips from my throat. I need to let it out—need to do something to break this pain inside me before it crushes me.

Savvy, God, I just need you back. Please, bring him back.

Lennon's there, lifting me by the arms, even though my body feels like it's going to shatter. I'm dry heaving, barely holding it together.

"Get it together, man," Lennon's voice slices through the chaos. "Savvy needs you strong."

He's right. Savion fucking needs me to be strong, and I will be. I have to be.

I drag in a breath, forcing the trembling to stop. My body obeys, but just barely. I climb back into the car, heart hammering, when Jasper's phone rings. He puts it on speaker.

"Cam, what the hell? Why am I seeing this video everywhere?" Jasper asks.

"Sorry, man. Sandra got the videos off my phone while I was trying to work things out," his hacker friend says over the line.

"Who the fuck is Sandra?" My voice shakes with anger, but Lennon's words echo in my mind—stay calm. Sandra's identity doesn't matter. Getting Savion back does.

Cam's voice tries to calm us down. "It's not a bad thing. His face is everywhere. People are looking for him."

"Someone just posted that the building looks like an old factory his family used to own in Malibu," Lars says, leaning forward and gripping my shoulder. His tone's full of hope, something I desperately cling to. "Declan, we'll find him."

I nod, my throat too tight to respond.

Jazz ends the call with Cam. "We're on it."

Lennon nudges me. "Switch seats."

For a second, I hesitate. Driving gives me a sliver of control, a way to feel like I'm doing something, but I'm a mess. Too raw. If I stay behind the wheel, I'll push us too hard, break every damn traffic rule. I meet Lennon's steady gaze and nod, knowing he's got this.

I slide out, swapping seats with him, feeling the cool leather beneath me as I buckle in. "Let's get your man," he says before flooring it.

I lean my head back, eyes closed, trying to steady the pounding in my skull. My heart's aching, my body screaming to take action, but I'm stuck here, hoping to God we're not too late.

My phone rings, dragging me out of my thoughts. "It's Crystelle." My voice is flat as I answer. "Hello?"

"Where are you guys? Hank's been blowing up my phone."

I'm not in the headspace to explain, but Lars reaches over and taps my shoulder. "I'll handle it." His eyes meet mine, understanding without me needing to say a word. I pass him my phone, grateful.

That's what makes Orion Skye more than just a band—we're a family. Lars knows I can't deal right now, so he takes over, updating Crystelle.

As we roll into Malibu, a heavy tension settles over the car. Jasper checks the map, but the signal's gone dead. No more pings from Savion's phone. My heart sinks lower, but I push the feeling down. We've come this far—we can't stop now.

"I'm gonna DM that guy who tweeted about the factory," Lars says, tapping away on his phone. The hashtag #Devion is already trending, and X is blowing up with posts about Savion. People are watching. Talking. Hoping for a miracle as much as I am.

The user, all4U, responds quickly, giving us directions to the old building. With no other lead, we head straight there.

We park outside and agree to move quietly. Every step is deliberate, the weight of what we might find crushing down on me. If Brock knows we're here, who knows what he'll do to Savion?

The factory door is solid, no handle in sight. We're going to need a key.

Or... fuck it .

I throw my shoulder against the door. It gives quickly, swinging open without a sound. Must not have been locked after all .

We freeze, listening for any sign we've been heard.

Then it comes—a sound echoing through the air. Manic laughter, the kind that makes my skin crawl. It's him. Brock.

Lennon motions for us to follow him, pointing to the west. We creep forward, the dust thick in the air, sticking in my throat. It's suffocating, and all I can think about is Savion, trapped in this hellhole, breathing in this filth. He must be suffering, his eyes burning, maybe coughing or worse.

Then I hear it—a faint sniffle.

My heart leaps. Without thinking, I sprint to the nearest door, flinging it open.

The room's empty.

The others catch up to me, and for a moment, all we can do is stand there in silence, the weight of what's happening pressing down on us.

"The lieutenant just texted me back," Lennon whispers. "He's gotten the local police to assist us until he can get here."

Thank God. My hands are shaking, but I clench them into fists, forcing myself to focus. Scanning the room, I know without a doubt this is where Savion's been held. There's one of his navy blue Converse shoes tossed in the corner. The shirt he was wearing this morning is draped over an upturned chair, wrinkled and dirty.

My throat tightens. What the hell has Brock done to him? Did he—? No. I can't go there.

The pounding in my head gets louder, almost drowning out my thoughts. Then, a loud thud echoes from the next room.

We all freeze, glancing at each other. Nobody speaks. Somehow, we're keeping it together, holding on by a thread. We edge out of the room, careful to stay quiet, hearts racing.

I can hear someone moving around in the next room. Slowly, I turn the doorknob, bracing myself for whatever nightmare lies behind that door.

Pushing it open, I peer inside. Brock has his back to us. He hasn't noticed we're here yet, but Savion—he's slumped in a chair, gagged, bound. His head hangs low, and he's barely moving. Rage boils in my blood.

"Bitch, you're mine!" Brock snarls, stalking toward Savion. "Fucking MINE!"

That's it. I don't think. I charge into the room, roaring like a wild animal. Brock spins around, eyes wide with shock, but it only lasts a second before he pulls out a knife. His face twists into a sneer, teeth bared like a rabid dog.

I backpedal, trying to put space between us, but the bastard's quick. I scan the room, desperate for something to defend myself. Anything.

Brock lunges. I dodge, pretending to fall to the ground, propping myself up on my forearms as I glare at him.

"Fuck you, Declan! Fuck you!" Brock screams, spit flying from his mouth.

"You can go fuck yourself," I snarl back, getting back to my feet. My body is tense, waiting.

He storms toward me, knife raised.

I don't fight. I swore I never would.

The memories flash behind my eyes—the screams, the blood, my father standing over Mom with that same madness Brock's wearing now. My heart races, my pulse pounding in my ears, and I can feel the same terror creeping up my spine as when I was just a kid, watching helplessly.

But this is different. I'm different.

Brock's knife glints in the dim light.

My mind screams for me to stop, to run, anything but this. But the image of Savion—bound, broken, helpless—flares up behind my eyes.

I can't back down. Not this time.

I promised myself I'd never be like him, never become the man who destroyed my life, who took everything from me. My knuckles burn as they collide with Brock's face, and for a split second, I'm terrified of who I might be turning into.

But no. My father hurt people for power, for control. I'm fighting for the man I love. Fighting to save him.

Brock snarls, blood dripping from his mouth, and lunges again. I block, instinct taking over, but my head's a mess, my heart torn between the promises I made and the reality in front of me.

Watching this psycho wielding the knife makes three things abundantly clear.

I'm not my father.

I'm not a monster.

I'm Savion's protector.

Lennon crashes into the room. The door bangs against the wall, and Brock whirls around, distracted for a split second. That's all I need. I slam one foot into the back of his knee.

Brock collapses face-first, the knife skittering out of his hand. Lars is on him in a flash, snatching the knife away while Lennon delivers a crushing punch to his face.

The satisfying crunch of bone and cartilage fills the room as Brock's nose explodes in blood. He lies motionless on the floor, groaning, but he's not out yet.

Breathing hard, adrenaline pumping through my veins, I command, "Get him up."

Lars grabs Brock by the shirt, yanking him to his knees. He tries to fight back, but I'm done playing games. My body moves on pure instinct as I launch myself at him, landing a solid punch to his jaw. The impact reverberates up my arm, but it's worth it. Brock's head snaps back, blood spraying from his mouth.

He stumbles, dazed, but I don't let up. Another punch to the gut, then an elbow to his temple. He crumples, hitting the floor with a thud.

Not enough. Not yet.

I kneel over him, grabbing him by the collar. "This is for Savion," I growl, slamming my fist into his face one last time. His body goes limp, his head lolling to the side. He's out cold, finally incapacitated.

I've won, but there's no satisfaction in it. Just relief. And maybe, a little bit of fear at what I've just done.

Lars and Lennon move in, standing over Brock like sentinels. "We're not taking our eyes off this piece of shit until the cops get here," Lars says, his voice low and deadly.

I nod, my chest heaving. My knuckles throb, blood smearing across them, but I don't care. "Thanks."

Lennon glances at me. "Go to him. Savion needs you now."

I don't need to be told twice. Somehow, I'm at Savion's side, kneeling in front of him. My hands tremble as I untie the ropes binding his wrists. Jazz is next to me, carefully peeling the tape from his mouth.

"He's breathing," Jazz murmurs, his face tight with concern. "But he's out cold."

I run my hands over Savion's arms, his face, as if I need to feel him, to make sure he's real. My throat burns, and I swallow hard. "Come on, Savvy… come on, baby, wake up."

His chest rises and falls, slow and steady, but he doesn't stir. I rest my forehead against his, the tears I've been holding back finally breaking free.

"I've got you," I whisper. "I'm here."

Footsteps shuffle behind us, and I barely register the sound of the door creaking open.

"Put your hands up! This is the LA County Sheriff's Department!"