CHAPTER TWO
Kamden
T
he car is silent, but the energy inside it is anything but calm. It’s like a goddamn live wire—frantic, sparking, threatening to snap at any second.
Every one of us is on edge, tension coiling so thick it makes the air feel suffocating. Even the steady hum of the tires against the pavement does nothing to mask the pressure mounting inside the car.
Liam grips the steering wheel like it’s his only lifeline, his knuckles white, his jaw tight. He’s got the speedometer pushed past reckless, but none of us say a damn word about it. If anything, I want him to go faster.
I sit in the back, leg bouncing, stomach twisted into knots so tight they feel like they might strangle me from the inside.
Jaxton is next to me, eerily quiet, his head resting back against the seat, his fingers drumming an uneven rhythm against his knee. It’s a deceptive kind of stillness—the kind that speaks volumes about the storm brewing beneath his cool exterior.
Lennox is in the passenger seat, his knee bouncing like a fucking jackhammer, his fingers tapping out a pattern against his thigh that I recognize instantly. Counting. He always does that when his anxiety spikes—five taps on the thigh, pause, five more. It’s his way of grounding himself.
And fuck, I get it.
I don’t think any of us have taken a proper breath since the moment we realized Avery wasn’t answering.
Because something’s wrong.
I feel it in my goddamn bones.
She wouldn’t just ignore us—not after sending that text. She wouldn’t turn her phone off, not unless she was dead asleep, and we all know she doesn’t sleep that deep when she’s alone.
And the flowers? The fucking flowers?
None of us sent them.
None of us wrote a note.
So, who the fuck did?
The pit in my stomach churns, dark and ugly, and I know every single one of us is thinking the same thing.
Lennox suddenly exhales sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose before dragging his hand down his face.
Liam glances at him quickly before snapping his eyes back to the road. “You good, Lenn?”
Lennox lets out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. “Not even a little bit.”
Jaxton speaks for the first time in miles, his voice low but steady. “Thinking about Becca?”
Lennox doesn’t answer at first, but we don’t need him to. We know. The incident has haunted him more than he lets on.
His knee stops bouncing, but his fingers tighten into fists. “It’s too familiar,” he mutters, voice rough.
My stomach twists again because he’s right.
This is too familiar.
And none of us want to fucking say it, but we’re all thinking it.
Lennox has lived this nightmare before. In one way or another, we all have—each of us bearing our own scars from the past.
A couple of years ago, Lennox had been heading back from a private dinner when he called a rideshare. He was alone, exhausted, expecting a short, uneventful ride.
Instead, he unknowingly accepted a bottle of water from the driver—one that had been laced with something. Becca—the woman behind the wheel—had drugged him, stripping him of control before he even realized what was happening. A complete stranger, someone he’d never met, had her hands all over him, positioning his limp body like some kind of twisted prize.
As if that wasn’t horrifying enough, she’d proudly posted the photos online, flaunting her so-called victory, bragging to the world that she had finally “claimed” him.
She’d called him hers.
Told the world that he belonged to her.
The worst part? The fucking worst part?
It worked.
For weeks after, fans and tabloids alike defended her. Said she wasn’t dangerous, just dedicated. That she was just a poor girl in love with her idol.
As if kidnapping and violating someone was something that could be excused.
As if Lennox was at fault for being too charming, too likable, too available.
As if he’d asked for it.
It took every ounce of restraint we had not to tear the world apart in the aftermath. The rage, the helplessness—it clawed at our insides, demanding retribution for what she’d done. Every second Lennox had been trapped, vulnerable, and unaware burned into us like a brand, fueling a level of fury we hadn’t known we were capable of.
But we didn’t just rage—we acted. We made damn sure she would never come near him again, never have the chance to hurt him or anyone else. Legal action, restraining orders, blacklisting—we pulled every string, called in every favor, and ensured she disappeared from our world entirely. She may have stolen his control for a night, but we took her power away permanently.
And while Lennox had played it off, kept up the cool, cocky persona he wore so well—it fucked him up.
It took months before he could sleep without checking the locks three times. Before he could get in a car without breaking into a cold sweat. Before he stopped waiting for the next psycho to crawl out of the shadows.
So yeah, tonight? This situation?
Even though Avery is likely just in the shower or asleep—and we’re probably overreacting—the situation has Lennox spiraling. His mind isn’t in the present; it’s trapped in the past, tangled in the worst-case scenarios his PTSD keeps feeding him. Every unanswered call, every second of silence, is another trigger, another memory clawing its way to the surface.
Liam exhales slowly, his grip on the wheel tightening until his knuckles turn white. “We’re overreacting. She’s fine,” he says, his voice edged with forced conviction—steel-wrapped bullshit he doesn’t even believe. The air in the car is thick, charged with an urgency none of us can shake, a gut-deep instinct screaming that something is very, very wrong.
Lennox just stares out the windshield, shoulders rigid. “I fucking hate waiting.”
“I know,” I mutter, rubbing the back of my neck. “We all do.”
Jaxton leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “If something happened her…”
He doesn’t finish the sentence, but he doesn’t have to.
We know.
We all know.
If someone laid a hand on her—hell, if they even breathed wrong in her direction—we’ll make damn sure they become a living, breathing lesson in why you never, ever mess with what’s ours.
And when we find the person responsible?
They won’t walk away from this.
The car tears down the darkened road, the engine growling like the beast inside each of us barely held in check. The headlights carve through the night, illuminating the path ahead, but no amount of light can cut through the suffocating dread coiling in my chest. Every passing mile stretches tight around my ribs, a countdown to whatever waits for us at the end of this drive.
We’ve overreacted before, let our protectiveness get the better of us—but this time, every instinct screams that something is wrong. The silence from her phone, the unanswered calls, the gut-wrenching feeling that we should never have left her alone. We’ll take the blame, carry the guilt for smothering her if that’s what this turns out to be. But if we’re right?
If someone had the audacity to put their hands on what’s ours, to harm the woman we would raze the world for?
Then they just sealed their fate. And we’ll make damn sure they know exactly who they fucked with.
As soon as we pull into the driveway, my stomach bottoms out.
Her damn porch light is off, again .
But that’s not what makes my blood run cold.
The front door—wide open, gaping like a wound in the night—hits me like a punch to the gut.
Liam barely manages to throw the car into park before Jaxton is out the door, moving at a dead sprint toward the house. The rest of us follow, but my legs feel like lead, dread clawing up my throat like bile.
The moment we hit the porch, the world around me blurs.
White roses—torn apart, trampled, scattered across the threshold. They litter the ground like the remnants of a battle, petals torn free as if shredded in desperation. My stomach twists violently.
Liam curses behind me, his breathing ragged. Lennox doesn’t say a word, but I can feel his presence vibrating with barely restrained rage.
The entryway tells a story no one wants to read.
The couch is knocked slightly askew. A chair is tipped over. A vase shattered near the hallway.
A fight she clearly didn’t win.
"Fuck," Jaxton hisses, raking a hand through his hair. His entire body vibrates with fury as he takes it all in, his chest rising and falling with sharp, shallow breaths. “She fought. She fucking fought.”
My fingers curl into fists, nails biting into my palms. Of course she did. She’s tough as hell. But it wasn’t enough.
A strangled sound leaves Lennox, his hands trembling at his sides. "Look." His voice is barely above a whisper as he gestures toward the roses.
Blood.
The stark red against the pure white.
A sick, ominous message.
“Don’t touch anything,” I order, my voice steadier than I feel. “Search the house.”
The second I say it, my eyes lock onto something half-hidden under the couch—her phone.
My breath catches in my throat as I cross the room in two long strides, snatching it up. The screen lights up at my touch, illuminating a wall of unanswered texts and missed calls from all of us. My grip tightens around the device, my jaw locking so hard it aches.
“She didn’t even have a chance to call for help.” I hold the phone up for the others to see, my throat closing up as the weight of it settles in my hands.
Jaxton’s face twists with something dark, something I don’t see from him often—helplessness. “She wouldn’t leave her phone behind unless she had no choice.” He voices the undeniable truth—her house is a disaster, a clear sign that something is wrong.
Liam is already moving toward the back door. “I’m calling the police while I check outside.” His voice is clipped, barely controlled as he disappears onto the patio.
“Does anyone have her dad’s number?” My voice is hoarse, but I force the words out. My hands shake, fingers flexing around the phone like I might crush it.
Jaxton swears under his breath. "No. But I know the code to her phone. Hand it here." He holds out his hand, and I don’t hesitate, passing it over. His eyes flicker as the screen unlocks instantly under his touch. He scrolls, searching, before his fingers freeze over a contact.
Dan.
Her dad.
Jaxton exhales sharply and drags a hand down his face again. “How the hell am I supposed to explain this?” His voice wavers, barely held together. “Hey, Dan. Your daughter’s missing. It might be a deranged fan who has her. Or maybe someone from our past. Or maybe some random sick fuck. But we don’t know—because we know nothing.”
The air in the room is thick, suffocating.
Lennox clenches his fists, his knuckles turning white. “We have to find her. Fast.”
“No shit,” Jaxton snaps, before blowing out a sharp breath and shaking his head. “Fuck. I know.” His voice lowers, calmer now, but no less dangerous. “We will. We’re not waiting around for the cops to do a damn thing. We’re going to find her ourselves.”
Liam steps back inside, his expression unreadable. “Cops are on their way,” he mutters, though there’s zero faith in his tone. “But we all know how that goes.”
Useless.
They’d tell us to sit tight, let them investigate, take statements. But we don’t have time for red tape.
Avery is out there.
Alone.
Scared.
And whoever took her…
They won’t fucking live to regret it.
Jaxton straightens, his entire demeanor shifting into something colder, harder—focused. “We’ll ensure the police check the security footage around the area. Then we go from there.”
I glance toward the door, my hands balling into fists at my sides. The thought of her being out there, at the mercy of some deranged lunatic, makes me sick. My nails bite into my palms, but the pain barely registers.
Because the only thing louder than my fear right now—Is my rage.
And I swear to God, whoever took her?
They won’t fucking survive it.