Chapter 39
Chapter thirty-nine
Trey
I Will Not Bow – Breaking Benjamin
I’m in the side room, flipping through the same questions I’ve answered a hundred times already.
The guys are scattered. Logan in one room dealing with a camera crew, Chace off with a radio interview, Sam pacing in a corner with a podcast host, Mac juggling a photographer and some impromptu fan requests.
The space around me feels off, makeshift—peeling paint, exposed wires, a single flickering light overhead, the hum of the building vibrating through the floor.
Not my usual setup for press. Not even close.
The interviewer sits across from me, slick black hair combed back, dark eyes sharp and assessing.
He’s in his fifties, voice smooth, practiced…
but the edge in it cuts cold. His questions don’t probe music or art—they prod, pry. Every pause feels measured, loaded.
“So, Mr. Baker,” he leans forward, fingers steepled. “How far would you go to protect what’s yours?” My chest tightens, hairs on my neck prickling. The words aren’t aggressive, not yet, but the undercurrent…there’s a threat wrapped inside that calm delivery. I shift in my chair, jaw tight.
“We’ve gone over this already. The album—” A soft click, the door swinging open. Relief hits me like a wave.
“Sir, I brought the wife,” the escort announces, stepping back, closing the door gently behind him.
Wait…I appreciate it, but, why? I straighten instantly, heart lifting. Sera. Every step she takes, every subtle sway of her body, hits me like gravity. My chest loosens, tension sloughing off, and I push forward to pull her into me. But then…her face.
Somethings wrong.
The color drains so fast it’s like the world tilts. Her lips part in a sharp, terrified gasp, her eyes wide and glimmering with panic. My stomach drops. One of the men that walked in with her pull out a knife, holding it to her throat. I freeze for just a moment.
Pain explodes along my neck, like fire crawling under my skin.
Every instinct I have ignites at once. I spin, arm snapping up, driving my elbow backward with every ounce of strength I’ve got.
It connects with a face— hard—a satisfying crunch of bone under skin.
The man grunts, stumbling, but I don’t stop.
My other hand comes up to rip whatever’s in my neck free—too late.
The fire’s spreading. I close the distance as he holds the blade toward me.
A lazy right cross drops my weight into him, and he hits the ground, knife skittering across the floor. Everything blurs, hazy and electric.
“Shh… it’s okay,” I rasp, but my own voice sounds foreign, ragged, broken. My head swims. The edges of the room blur. I can see the reporter’s face now, the gleam in his eyes, but it’s distant, like watching through a lens smeared with smoke.
“Sera,” I rasp, reaching for her, pulling her in.
Her hands find my chest, trembling.
“Trey—”
“Shh.” I press my forehead to hers. My world is narrowing, tunneling. The floor wavers. My vision smears at the edges, voices warping into noise. I can barely make out the man’s face now—eyes cold, burning into mine—but the darkness eats away the details before I can lock on.
My knees hit the floor. My arms refuse to listen.
The burn turns to numbness. I try to speak, to calm her, to reassure her, but the words choke halfway up my throat.
The hum of cameras, the scuff of crew feet, distant murmurs—all of it distorts into an incoherent roar.
I see flashes of her eyes—wide, bright, terrified—and something raw and feral surges in me.
I take another breath, try to push back the darkness…
but it’s fast. Faster than I can fight. Sounds call out, sirens alarms, we might be alright, sounds like somebody knows.
“Run…” I manage to rasp before my vision tunnels, light fracturing into shards of white and gold.
Her pulse against me, warm and frantic, is the last thing I see before the black swallows everything.
I feel a foot pressing against my skull, grinding down.
The pain isn’t sharp yet, just pressure building, suffocating, before the darkness swallows me whole.