Chapter 27 #2
Tears sting my eyes, but I force myself to hold his gaze. “You don’t own me, Blake. You never did.”
He laughs again, unhinged and wild. “Oh, Sawyer… you’re wrong. I always did. And I always will.”
He straightens, letting go of my leg with a final, bruising squeeze. He circles the bed, every step deliberate, every breath a threat.
“You want to be free?” he taunts. “Prove you deserve it. Scream for them. Scream for all the heroes you think are coming. Let’s see if they get to you before I break you for good.”
And with that, he slips out the door; the mask lingers in my vision long after he’s gone.
I’m left shivering, humiliated, but more determined than ever.
I breathe out, tasting blood from where I bit my tongue to keep from screaming.
If this is the last fight I have in me, I’m not letting him win.
RIOT
I’m tired of waiting.
I’ve stapled a hundred flyers to telephone poles, taped them to gas pumps and fast food windows, and handed them to strangers in every language I know. But every mile, every hour, makes the hole inside me grow wider.
We have fans everywhere—across the country, hell, across the world. If she’s out there, someone has to see her. Someone has to see him.
I beeline into the war room, hands shaking, jaw clenched. Jasper’s hunched over the table, staring at the map like he can force it to give up her location. The rest of the crew look up, hollow-eyed, hoping for something, anything, that isn’t more waiting.
I slam my fist on the table. “We’re not doing enough. The cops, the feds—they’re moving too slow. What if she’s not even in this state anymore? We could waste time.”
Ash raises an eyebrow. “You got a better idea?”
“Yeah.” I shove my phone in front of Jasper, meeting his gaze. “We tell the fans—all of them. We’re making a video right now. Ask for help. Plead. Threaten, beg—I don’t care. We don’t step foot on a stage again until she’s home.”
Micah nods, already grabbing his camera. “He’s right. There are more of them than there are cops in this whole fucking state. If anyone can find her, it’s your people.”
Jasper finally looks up, pain and fury burning in his eyes. “We tell them everything. Name, face, every detail. We’ll burn it all down if we have to.”
I stand next to him, shoulders squared, voice hard. “We’re not going back on tour. Not until Sawyer’s safe. The fans deserve to know why. And we need every set of eyes we can get.”
Dex puts a hand on my back, voice steady. “Let’s do it. We’ll get the word out in every city. Every show. This ends now.”
Micah props the camera on a stack of books, aiming it straight at Jasper and me.
The living room is trashed—maps everywhere, laptops open, coffee gone cold, and all of us looking like hell.
I swipe my hand over my mouth, fighting down the nerves, then glance at Jasper.
He looks as bad as I feel, but when the little red light on the camera goes on, we both lean in.
No hiding. No filters. No rockstar bullshit.
I look straight at the lens and force myself to speak.
“This is Riot from Reckless Saints. And this is Jasper from Her Last Confessional. I know this isn’t the video you want from us, but you need to hear this.
” My voice cracks, but I push on, fingers drumming out a frantic beat on my knee.
“Sawyer Morrigan—our tour photographer, our friend, our family—was kidnapped. She’s missing.
We don’t know where she is. We don’t even know if she’s still in the state. And we’re out of time.”
I hold up the flyer, my hands shaking so badly that it rustles in the microphone.
I make myself hold it still. “You’ve seen her.
Five feet tall. Black hair on top, blue and green underneath, tattoos, facial piercings, short as hell, and loud as hell.
You’ve seen her in the pit, or at the barricade, or maybe you follow her photos. She’s one of us. She’s one of you.”
Jasper’s jaw flexes. He leans in, elbows on his knees, and says, “This isn’t a joke.
This isn’t a PR stunt. We’re not coming back to the stage, we’re not releasing anything else, until Sawyer’s home.
If you see her, or a white van, or a man in a mask—if you hear anything, even if you think it’s nothing—tell us.
Message us. Call the number. Wake us up in the middle of the night. We don’t care. We want her back.”
The comments are already rolling in—hearts, fire emojis, #FindSawyer, hundreds of fans tagging each other.
I swallow hard. “We know our fans. You guys are everywhere. You’re the ones who sneak backstage, who meet us at the bus at three in the morning, who know every city, every alley, every face.
We need you now more than ever. Don’t let this be a headline.
Flood every feed, every street, every corner of this country until Sawyer comes home. ”
Jasper’s voice breaks, just for a second, but he doesn’t look away. “She’s not just our photographer. She’s important. And we’re not doing anything else until she’s safe. Please—help us.”
I want to punch a wall. I want to scream. But I clench my fists and say, “You guys call yourselves family. Prove it. Help us bring her home.”
Micah cuts the feed. The room is silent for a second, just the sound of all our phones blowing up, fans from every time zone already working, searching, already making noise. For the first time since she vanished, I feel hope pushing through the panic.
I look at Jasper. He nods. And I promise myself—and her—
I won’t stop. Not until she’s home.
SAWYER
The ache in my wrists, the rawness in my throat, the pounding of my heart—those are the only things that feel real anymore. The world shrinks down to pain and the heavy weight of the chains, to the memory of Jasper’s touch, Riot’s laughter, and the comfort of friends who feel galaxies away now.
My body and my brain are at war. My mind screams no, but my body—traitorous, weak—still responds, every nerve hypersensitive from fear and exhaustion.
I’d read about girls like this in those dark romance books I used to devour, the ones where twisted power and desire blur into something dangerous and intoxicating.
Sometimes I wondered what it might be like to lose control that way, to trust someone enough to let them take it.
But not like this.
Not with him.
The thought alone makes me want to crawl out of my skin.
I almost slip under again when the door slams open—so hard the wall shakes, a jolt of terror snapping me back to the present. Blake barrels in, breath wild behind the mask, fists clenched around his phone.
He’s shaking with rage. I shrink against the mattress, every muscle tense.
He doesn’t say a word at first. Just shoves the phone in my face—an image filling the screen.
It’s them—Jasper and Riot, haunted and desperate, pleading with the world to help find me.
My name is everywhere—in the flood of comments, tags, the world set on fire for me.
He plays the video, holding it so close to my face that I can see the crack in his screen and the trembling of his hand.
I’m so stunned that at first I don’t realize he’s furious. I’m almost—almost—hopeful. They’re fighting for me. They haven’t given up. For a second, it’s the only thing keeping me breathing.
But then the phone slams down on the side table, screen splintering. Blake’s whole body vibrates with fury, voice shaking as he rips the mask off his face—then just as quickly shoves it back on.
“Do you see what you’ve done?” His voice is raw, edged with betrayal and something feral. “You and your precious little rockstars. You think you’re going to be rescued now? You think all their fans are going to storm in and save you?”
I can barely breathe, chest tight, vision tunneling.
“Why are you even still wearing the mask?” I choke out, voice hoarse.
He leans in, face inches from mine, mask reflecting my wide, terrified eyes.
“Because when they find you—if they find you—I want them to remember this. I want them to remember what it cost to make that fucking video. Every time they look at this mask, I want them to know they’re the reason you suffered. ”
His hand flies to my throat, cold and relentless, squeezing until blackness spiders at the edges of my vision. He screams, spit flying, “Because of them, I can’t even go out and get what I need to keep you alive. Food. Water. Anything. Do you have any idea what they’ve done? What have you done?”
My world narrows to the vise of his grip, the burning panic for air. When he finally lets go, I collapse back, lungs burning, mind foggy and light.
His knife flashes—cold, cruel, a threat and a promise all in one. He circles the blade in the air, then drags it down my side, slicing through the waistband of my sleep shorts. He rips them down my legs, leaving me trembling, exposed, the cold air biting at my skin.
I watch in horror as he licks the handle of the knife, eyes never leaving mine, mask hiding his face but not the madness burning behind it.
He lowers the knife between my legs, voice dripping venom and anticipation.
“You want to be a whore for them? You want to let the world see what happens to girls who think they can leave me behind?”
He presses the flat of the blade against my inner thigh, cold and unyielding. My body flinches violently, instinct screaming stop, but I’m chained, helpless. “I told you, Sawyer. I always finish what I start. And I promise—by the time I’m done, you’ll only ever think of me.”
The knife handle presses against my entrance.
The cold bite of it is worse than the pain.
A violation. A nightmare. My body recoils, but even as I fight it, some twisted reflex tightens around it when he pushes the handle inside.
It burns—wrong and invasive. Tears sting my eyes, but I grit my teeth, refusing to give him that satisfaction.
I gasp, the invasion burning, the chains biting my wrists as I try to twist away. The fear is a living, suffocating thing, but I force out, “You never knew how to pleasure me, anyway. You think you can make me cum? Please. I faked every single one.”
He laughs, dark and hollow, rolling the handle inside me, twisting it so my body clenches in pain and outrage. “You think you’re clever. That’s why I always liked you, Sawyer. But you’ll regret that soon.”
I clench my jaw, spit out another lie—anything to keep him from seeing how close I am to breaking—to crying. “You’ll never get an orgasm from me. Not a real one. That’s something only real men know how to do. You’re not one.”
He only grins behind the mask, pressing the knife deeper, moving it in and out in slow, humiliating thrusts.
My body twitches despite me, the unwanted sensation a grotesque reminder that nerve endings don’t care who’s touching them.
I hate it. Hate the way my breath catches against my will.
Hate the way my thighs shake—not from desire but from the effort to hold it all back.
This isn’t like the books, I tell myself. This isn’t safe, wanted, or chosen. This is hell.
He reaches into his pocket, never stopping the slow, humiliating thrust of the handle, and pulls out a black vibrator. He flicks it on, and the sound fills the air—a low, menacing hum.
His voice drops, as sharp as the blade he’s holding. “You’re right. I never cared. Not until I saw you in the window with them. Saw you fall apart for them. But now I’m taking it all back. Every single one. You’ll fall apart for me, on my knife, with this cunt that belongs to me.”
He brings the vibrator down, pressing it against my clit while the knife handle is still inside me, the cold and buzzing making every muscle in my body tighten in fear and shame.
My mind screams—NO, NO, NO—but my voice is a choked whisper, too raw to be loud.
My body, however, betrays me. The vibrations rattle through me, relentless, cruel, pushing my nerves to fire in ways I can’t control.
This isn’t pleasure. This isn’t what I want. This is my body reacting like a machine, broken and twisted.
God, this isn’t like Jasper’s hands—firm but reverent—or Riot’s playful touches that made me feel seen and worshipped.
This is wrong.
This is poison.
My only defense is my words, broken and desperate. “You’ll never have what they had. You’ll never have me.”
He grabs my jaw, squeezing until I taste blood. “We’ll see, pet. We’ll see who you really belong to.”
The pain and humiliation merge, my body shaking with the effort to hold on to myself, to stay here, to not disappear into the darkness behind my eyes. I bite my tongue, counting breaths, telling myself over and over—
He presses the vibrator hard against me, the knife handle still moving inside, slow and relentless but picking up speed.
I grit my teeth, biting back a scream. I tell myself not to break.
Not to give him this. But my body isn’t listening anymore—every muscle locked, nerves sparking, the sensation blurring pain and pleasure until I can’t tell where one ends and the other begins.
Blake leans over me, mask inches from my face, voice a growl that vibrates straight through my bones.
“That’s it, Sawyer. Let them watch. Let the entire world see who makes you fall apart. You’re so fucking beautiful like this—ruined for anyone but me.”
I sob, shaking, fighting the wave building inside me with everything I have left. But I’m chained, trapped, and the shame crashes over me as my body clenches, trembling—
No, no, please—
But it happens. My body betrays me. I cum with a cry I can’t swallow, tears spilling over my cheeks, every nerve burning with humiliation.
Blake groans, pressing closer, his voice filthy and triumphant. “That’s right, cry for me. Scream for me. This is all you’re good for. Look how pretty you are when you’re broken. I could make you cum all day, chained and begging, just for me.”
I hate him. I hate myself. I hate the weakness in my legs; the sobs racking my chest, the aftershocks still shaking my body. And worst of all, I hate that my body responded at all—that this monster could pull reactions from me that were never his to take.
He releases my jaw with a laugh, lingering to watch my tears. “You always belonged to me, Sawyer. Always.”
I turn my face away, choking on my misery, wishing I could disappear, wishing I could take back every second. The shame settles over me like a blanket, heavy and suffocating.
But underneath the despair, something else flickers—a tiny, stubborn spark that refuses to die, even here, even now.
I can’t help but think of Jasper and Riot, all the comfort and safety I felt every time I was with them. What will they think of me when they find out about this?
But I already know. They’ll see me differently. They won’t want me anymore, just like everybody else.