Chapter 28 #2
He laughs, the sound echoing off the tile.
“Your cunt didn’t think so when she was squeezing my knife.
” His words cut deeper than the blade ever could.
I flinch, nausea clawing its way up my throat, hating my body all over again for betraying me, for reacting under fear and pain when I wanted nothing but to disappear.
He moves closer, voice almost gentle, but there’s nothing soft about it. “I took a video of it, you know. Sent it to your precious boys. Bet they’re pissed at you. Probably don’t even want you now.” He shrugs and brings his hand up to my face. “But I do. I always have. No matter what.”
I feel myself shutting down, letting his words pound against me like hailstones until they’re just noise, until I’m numb.
He turns on the water, letting it rain down over my head, hot and relentless.
I want to scream, but the sound catches in my throat.
He grabs shampoo, lathers it in his hands, and starts working it into my hair.
I zone out as he scrubs, my body swaying under the weight of exhaustion and fear, my mind trying to float away from the feeling of his nails scraping my scalp.
I imagine I’m somewhere else—on the bus, with Jasper leaning in too close, with Riot teasing me until I smile. Anywhere but here.
Then comes the soap. His palms drag down my shoulders, my arms, across my chest. His hands are slow, methodical, like he’s pretending this is care.
But I can feel the hunger under it, the way his touch lingers, greedy.
He takes his time, moving lower down my ribs, across my stomach, and when his hands skim over my hips, I tense so hard my wrists burn from straining against the cuffs.
My body is a war zone. My brain is screaming stop, but my nerves still react, still feel everything. The contrast between the hot water and his stiff fingers. The wrongness of it all.
He leans close, voice low and almost nostalgic. “You used to love when we showered together, Sawyer. You’d beg me to wash your hair, your body, every inch. Remember?”
I grit my teeth, fighting the flash of memory, the part of me that remembers any of this with softness. That girl is gone. Dead. This is not love. This is control.
He finishes, but doesn’t unhook me. He steps back, admiring me like I’m some twisted piece of artwork, eyes burning behind the mask.
“I could keep you like this forever,” he murmurs, voice thick with possessive heat. “You’re perfect, chained and clean, all mine.”
I stare at the tiles, at the water swirling down the drain, willing myself to disappear. But I hold on to the one thing he can’t touch—the part of me that refuses to break. Not for him.
But then I feel him moving behind me, closer, the heat of him pressing into my back. My stomach drops when my eyes—without permission—catch on the bulge in his pants. Disgust rips through me. I force my gaze away, but it’s too late. He saw it. He knows.
The metallic jingle of his belt undoes me faster than anything else. My pulse spikes as if I’ve been shocked. He steps out of his pants, casual, like this is just another morning.
“No. No, please—” My voice cracks, raw from disuse and too many silent screams.
Blake smirks under his mask, kicking his pants aside. “Relax. I need a shower too.”
He steps under the spray, his body cutting off the light. Water runs down his chest, over the mask, over the eyes that never leave me. I stare at the mask because it’s easier than looking at the hunger on his face. Easier than acknowledging what’s coming.
Then his hand moves to his cock, stroking himself with a groan—low, filthy, unguarded. The sound makes my stomach twist. I shut my eyes, desperate for escape, and my mind claws toward something—someone—else.
“You used to love watching me touch myself to you, Sawyer. You look so fucking hot right now—defiant, chained up, all mine.”
He strokes himself, never taking his eyes off me. My mind recoils, tries to fold in on itself. I don’t want to see him. I don’t like this. But my eyes flick down anyway—just for a second, to get it over with.
It’s not Blake, I see. I force myself to imagine anything else—Jasper and Riot, both masked, both watching me, touching themselves for me. I build the fantasy in my head, layer by layer, to survive. It’s wrong, but it’s the only thing that makes the world bearable, that keeps me from falling apart.
Blake steps closer, his cock hard, his breath heavy behind the mask. The fantasy fractures, crashing away like glass. My throat goes tight as I jerk back against the chain, wrists screaming in pain.
“Don’t touch me, Blake,” I snap, voice trembling but strong, pure instinct forcing the words out before he can get any closer.
His eyes narrow behind the mask, a wicked smile twisting across his mouth like I just gave him a challenge. I refuse to flinch. I refuse to look away. If all I have left is the hatred in my eyes, then that’s what I’ll burn him with.
He steps right up to me, chest brushing mine, the heat of him mixing with the steam. I feel trapped by his shadow, his obsession. My breathing quickens, shallow and sharp.
Then, without a word, he removes the mask and lets it fall onto the shower floor. His face is flushed, damp, wild—jaw clenched so hard I can see the pulse throbbing in his neck. He leans in close, his breath a hot whisper against my ear.
“I’m about to take what else belongs to me,” he says.
The words send a spike of icy fear straight to my gut. I try to back up, but there’s nowhere to go—the chain yanks me still, wrists burning, shoulders straining. My body is frozen, but my mind is screaming, ’Fight, Sawyer’.
Then he drops to his knees right in front of me, his gaze locked between my legs like I’m prey he’s about to devour. Something snaps in me—pure survival. I bring my knee up, aiming for his face with all the rage and terror I’ve been choking down.
He’s fast. Faster than I remember. His hand snaps out, and there’s a flash of silver. The knife. He holds it inches from my skin, his voice low and venomous.
“Try that again and I’ll fucking cut you, Sawyer.”
My heart hammers against my ribs, but I kick anyway, desperate to get free.
This time, he catches my ankle, fingers bruising.
His blade drags across my thigh—not deep, but enough for blood to bloom, the sting burning through the hot water.
My breath catches. Then he grabs my hip and slices again—deeper.
The blood flows faster, mixing with heat and running in red rivulets down my skin.
Pain explodes through me. My stomach flips with nausea.
He presses his thumb into the cut, forcing a sound from my throat. “Do it again, and I’ll fucking carve my name right above this pretty cunt. Let everyone see who you belong to.”
Tears spill over, hot and silent, mixing with the shower water. The humiliation burns worse than the cuts.
Blake groans like my tears turn him on. “Yes, baby, cry for me. I love it when you cry.”
His grip clamps around my thigh as he lifts my leg over his shoulder, leaving me stretched and exposed. The pain in my wrists, the sting of blood, the way my body trembles—it all blends into this raw, horrible vulnerability.
Then his mouth is on me, tongue hot and relentless, trying to rip pleasure from my body like it’s his right to have it. I bite my lip until I taste blood, willing myself not to react.
But my body is cruel. My nerves fire no matter how much I hate it. I hate that my back arches, that my legs shake. I hate him for every second of this.
I force my mind away. I try to think of anything—of Jasper’s hand on my throat, Riot’s grin as he whispers against my skin. This isn’t real. This is just pain, just survival.
But he’s not them. He never will be.
A bitter, broken laugh escapes my chest before I can stop it. The sound is harsh, wrong, like it’s tearing out of me. I can’t help it—I’m laughing. Shaking. Because he’ll never have what they had. He’ll never have me, no matter what he does.
Blake jerks back, eyes wide, rage twisting his face. He stands, fists clenched, water dripping off his body like fire.
I don’t care, not for that split second.
Even chained and bleeding, I’m still mine.
JASPER
It all happens in a heartbeat.
Macee’s on the phone with Blake’s parents, pacing, voice shaking so bad she almost drops it. Then, suddenly, she stops. “Yeah, hi, Mrs. Lewis… No, I just—have you heard from Blake? You haven’t? Do you have any reason to think he’d be in Midnight’s Edge?”
She listens, eyes flicking to all of us, and then—like fate handing us a lifeline—the words slip out. “There’s a cabin. A few towns over. The cabin belongs to his cousin who was previously part of the F.B.I.”
So many things start to make sense as to how he was able to pull this off.
An address is rattled off. She repeats it, writes it on her palm in smeared pen, then hangs up. The room goes dead silent. Even the air seems to freeze.
It takes everything in me not to scream. Instead, I stand—shoving the table back so hard it rattles the floor.
“Nobody calls the fucking cops,” I say, my voice low and dangerous. “Not yet. Not until I have my hands on him. I want this motherfucker alive.”
The place erupts. Ash and Jace move first—boots, weapons, bags.
Dex grabs his bat. Riot’s shaking, jaw set, but he’s laser-focused, rage behind his eyes.
Micah’s already at his laptop, stuffing cables and drives into a backpack.
“I’ll jam the property. Any sensors, cameras—he won’t even see us coming. ”
Jace grabs the truck keys. Ash double-checks the magazines for the Glock he stole from the bus. Dex is muttering to himself, knuckles white around the handle of his bat.
Macee stands, tears tracking down her cheeks. “Bring her home,” she whispers. “Please.”
I cross the room and grab her shoulder, just for a second—because if I stop, if I break, I’ll never start again. “We will. Stay here. Phone with you. Doors locked.”