11. RYAN
RYAN
Inever thought I’d be dying to return to school, but I am.
Kane drops a message in the group chat every two hours to make sure I’m alive, Gideon wants me to give him the play-by-play, and Torin updates me on Griff.
Rhys is quiet, but I know he’s keeping up with the conversation because he reacts to comments.
If I knew what was happening, I’d tell them, but I don’t.
Father’s driver pulled through a long iron gate after he was buzzed in.
We’ve been winding up a long driveway, my stomach knotting with dread.
I get the distinct sense that the gate isn’t just for keeping people out, but in.
We pull up to a sizable house. Six families could live here.
Icy rain pelts against my face, and the wind howls through my bones.
Stepping into the entryway isn’t much relief.
I rub my arms, shivering. You’d think someone with a house this size could afford to turn on the heat.
“The dining room’s this way,” the man—the house staff—says, leading us into an obnoxiously large dining room, with tall windows that aren’t doing anything for the ambiance on a day like today.
At the head of the table sits Gregory Kline. My blood goes cold. I think of that damn gate. Father wouldn’t leave me here … would he?
I turn to Father. “What’s going on?” His threats from the summer come to mind about worse prisons. Is that what he’s planning? The same suffocating pressure I get when I’m in the tank seizes my lungs.
Okay, slow breaths. Do not have a fucking panic attack in front of Gregory Kline.
“Sit, Ryan. Don’t be rude. Hello, Gregory. It’s good to see you.”
Kline stands, and they embrace in a quick hug. Gregory holds it just a little too long—if you ask me—and Father has to untangle himself from his arms.
Yeah, that’s not happening to me. I offer the man a handshake. “Ryan,” he says, smiling a helluva lot brighter than this room. Such a strange man. “It’s good to see you again.”
I take a shallow breath, my suit too constricting for anything else. This could all be a threat. Father would go this far to make a point. He’s a man of action over words.
But is this just a threat? Or does Kline have a fucking cage for me?
“Would you like something to drink, Ryan?” Kline asks.
“Water’s good for me,” I say automatically. No drinking. No sex. No overindulging period.
Except you have had sex recently, Ryan. With Tate. Multiple times. I smile to myself.
“I like that,” Kline says, his eyes surveying my body. “Take the jacket off.”
I almost choke on my own spit. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me.” He sips whatever he’s got in his glass, attention diverting briefly to his staff. “Pour Henry two fingers of the twenty-five-year Macallan.”
I glance at Father. Is he really gonna let this guy run the show? As much as he wants to punish me, we’re still Savages, we don’t bow to anyone. Father nods. In other words, Take off your jacket, Ryan.
Alright, fine, but that’s all I’m doing. Anything else, and I walk. I wish Tate were here. Love to see what he’d do in this situation. Taking off my charcoal blazer slowly, I hang it over the chair and sit. Father follows suit.
Kline and Father make small talk while dinner’s served by the staff.
Oh, god. I hope they’re staff. But who the fuck knows with the rumors I’ve heard about this guy.
The “Klines don’t let their spouses out” rumor seemed pretty far-fetched to me until I saw that gate.
Now? I shiver. I don’t know what to believe.
This whole ambiance is giving The Silence of the Lambs and The People Under the Stairs.
I sit back, hands folded on my lap, finding it hard to conjure an appetite. “Why are we here?” I finally cut in. Father will chastise me later for being rude, but I’m done with the suspense.
They have a private conversation with their eyes, and if I didn’t already suspect that my reason for being here was because I was about to become the next Mr. Kline, I’d think they were about to announce their engagement.
They seem in sync. Just sayin’.
“It’s time we merge the families,” Father starts.
“And you want me to do it,” I say.
Kline clears his throat. “I’d be the one to do it. You’ll be my bride.”
“I am not a bride. And even if I were, that wouldn’t mean—”
“I mean bride in the traditional sense,” he interrupts. “You know, nineteen-fifties style. It’s kind of a thing of mine.”
“If you want me barefoot and pregnant, I have bad news for you.”
Kline laughs. “I don’t care about that. We’ll have a surrogate. I just want you attentive and obedient.”
This is pure entertainment, now. I’ll marry Kline over my dead body. “Oh? And how many children are we having?”
“Haven’t decided yet. Maybe eight? I already have two sons, but they’re illegitimate, seeing as they were out of wedlock.”
Kline has sons, plural? I’ve never heard of either of them.
“You haven’t met Cooper yet? I guess not. The hockey team was never welcoming to members of the skate team. It’s his first year.”
At least one of his sons is at North Point? He’s never brought up sons in conversation or brought them out. But if they’re out of wedlock, as he said, maybe he never let them out. Maybe he keeps them hidden. Fuck. More proof that the rumors are true.
Clearly, I don’t have a say in anything that’s about to transpire. I stand up. “Father, I’ll be waiting in the car.”
Kline stands up—not my father. “Sit down, Ryan.”
“No.”
Two guards appear from outside the dining room doors.
They move their jackets back a touch, showing me their pieces.
Yeah, yeah. Fine. I sit down. But what I can’t figure out is if I’m the only captive here, or if Father’s one, too.
Kline seems to have taken the lead, and Father hasn’t done anything but sip his scotch.
“Okay, so I’m drowning in children and have suddenly become a stepfather.
You should know that I’m terrible with them.
What else?” Would Tate want children included with his marriage proposal?
I hadn’t asked because he didn’t look like the kind to want children, but I guess every alpha-male type is driven to carry on their family line or whatever. Egotistical bullshit is what it is.
“Whatever I want.”
“Do I get to play hockey?”
“I’d prefer it, actually.”
I squint, trying to figure him out. Now I’m doubting the rumors. Even Tate’s sour to the idea of me playing hockey. Why is Kline okay with it? I rub a hand over my face. If he is, marrying Kline isn’t a terrible option, other than the daycare-sized load of children he wants.
“I want a husband that everyone else prizes,” he explains as if he can see the question on my face. “And they prize you because you’re a hockey god.”
“Okay, so I’m on the road for nine months of the year, I return home in the off-season to what?”
“To do whatever I want. It’s a good deal.” But the way he’s smiling, as if he’s imagining the whatever-he-wants part of the deal.
He could also be lying, a little voice from the corner of my mind says. I can’t trust a single person. It’s exhausting.
“Anyway, we can talk logistics another time. I want to see you eating your steak, Ryan. I had the chef prepare it the way your father said you like it.”
Oh, no. He did not just order me to eat like I’m a fucking toddler. But I don’t see another option. Playing nice until we get out of here, that’s what I have to do. Maybe I use the restroom, so I can text Tate …
We eat in silence. Father still hasn’t said much. Kline watches me like I’m his favorite carnal thriller, occasionally licking his lips. I try to wake myself up. This has to be a nightmare.
Once I’m finished eating—Kline’s only eaten half of what’s on his plate—he stands. “I’ll take my private time with Ryan now, Henry. You can wait in the living room.”
The food in my stomach curdles. I don’t know what kind of alone time was promised on my behalf, but I doubt I’ll like it. And what if Father leaves? This might be my cue to use the restroom. I can’t believe Tate is my only fucking hope right now.
“Can I piss first?”
“First door on your right. Across from that is my study. Meet me there in five minutes.”
Fuck. Fuck. This is all so fucked.
As soon as I’m in the restroom, I take a quick look around, sussing the place out for cameras. I don’t see one. That doesn’t mean there isn’t one, so I’ll have to pull my dick out to actually piss, make it look like I’m casually texting friends just in case.
I pull up my chat with Tate. That weird thing happens with my lips again—a smile. He told me to text him or else, so I wrote or else. First, I was swooning, then I was a damn simp for his cock, now I’m flirting. This is so bad.
As bad as maybe being Kline’s hostage?
No.
Right.
Focus, Ryan.
But I take a second to reread what he wrote back.
Tate
I’m happy to give you lots of “or else” next time I see you.
He didn’t mention when that would be, and I know he did that shit on purpose. He probably wants to hunt me down and drag me somewhere. If I don’t show up at school, would he hunt me down for real?
Yes. I know the answer’s yes.
Maybe only because he considers me his, but I don’t care why he finds me, just that he does.
Me
Sending you my current location.
It’s the middle of the day. I don’t know what he’s up to. I wait a minute as I shake off, then set my phone on the counter, so I can see if he texts while I wash my hands.
Wait a sec. It’s not sending. I dry my hands and uselessly press the screen, but the stupid green bar won’t go any further.
No internet connection.
What the...? It’s not like we’re miles out from civilization. Fuck me. On my own again. Trapped again. There’s not even a window to climb out of in this damn washroom. I press send one last time, the bar’s stuck in the middle of sending again. I pocket the phone.