2. RYAN
RYAN
Still August
“Put your arms in, Ryan,” Father says.
I’m not scared of much, but that fucking jacket …
I’m willing to beg to have it far away from me.
What a way to find out you’re claustrophobic—your father straps you into uncompromising canvas.
Does he give a fuck that every time he locks me in that thing, the racing panic convinces me I’m gonna die?
No. It’s punishment or conditioning. Either way, my terror is inconsequential.
“I-I did everything you said.”
“Mm-hmm, and it’s a good thing you did, or this would be worse than it has to be.
” He slides his hands into his pockets, waiting.
He’s not doing the dirty work; he would never.
He’s got two armed men at the door, and two more inside—one to my right, and one holding out the straitjacket.
The heavy canvas arms hang stiffly, the whole thing laden with buckles and straps, waiting to trap me.
He called me to his office with instructions to wear only a pair of boxer briefs and my house robe. No slippers, no socks. My heart sank. Every instinct screamed run. I knew what I was in for and exactly how much mercy he has for me, but I came anyway. I hoped I could reason with him.
Father’s immovable demeanor is a brick wall of decision.
He’s not going to back down, and I’m outnumbered and outsmarted.
But I’m still his son and heir, and as fucking archaic as all that shit is, I can’t help but hold my head high and act like it.
I was taught never to roll over. Maybe if I can show him I’m the man he raised, he’ll end all of this, and we can go back to before he decided that I was such a stain on the family name.
And I’m well aware that stuffing your son into a straitjacket, and then into a dark space so small he feels like he’s suffocating, isn’t normal.
But we aren’t. We’ve never been. It’s the cost of being a member of the Savage family.
Always tested. Always pushed to the limits.
Whatever he does to me, it doesn’t hold a candle to what Grandfather did to him, which is why he thinks I’m weak and need Grandfather’s special brand of conditioning.
But my teeth chatter anyway, my body frozen, unable to take those last two steps or lift my arms.
Come on, Ryan. Just do it. Just fucking do it. At least show him you’re not a coward.
I take a breath and force my arms out. They’re on me too quickly.
The man with the jacket slides the sleeves up my arms like he’s catching a rabbit in a bag, and the other moves with hurried efficiency, tightening and buckling.
Do they think I’ll run? Guess I can’t deny wanting to.
Maybe it’s on my face. My insides coil as I fight every instinct to move.
They secure me way too fucking tightly. This is where I start breathing carefully—too much pressure anywhere, and I’ll hyperventilate.
I also hold still. It’s better that my brain doesn’t know just how confined I am, or it’ll flip the fuck out.
One of the men reaches through my legs, knuckles grazing my nuts, and takes hold of the buckle that latches in the back.
“Watch it, asshole,” I snap.
He flinches. Because, yeah, I might be living the pinnacle of humiliation, strapped into this jacket, but I’m still top of the food chain in this house.
Once I’m in, I focus on slow and steady breathing and fight to keep my eyes open.
I want nothing more than to close them, convince myself I’m somewhere else.
But I know the restraints are there, my brain begging me to tug.
Tugging will show me exactly how well I’m confined.
Something my brain wants to know, something it can’t know.
Don’t tug, don’t tug, don’t tug.
There’s pressure across my chest. The jacket decides my posture—chin curved toward my collarbone, shoulders bowed so my arms can hug my torso.
I look my father in the eyes, doing my best to hide my rising panic. My heart thuds, blood heating as the room spins.
“You know why we need to do this. You always come back clearer.”
“I’m clear, sir. Clearer than ever,” I insist. My voice shakes. Why won’t it stop shaking?
His lips draw into a firm line. “You’re slipping, whether you know it or not. I won’t watch you self-destruct, Ryan. My methods might be harsh, but they work.”
It finally sinks in. This is happening. He ignores the way my breath stutters in favor of doing what he needs to do to keep his heir in line.
That’s what matters most to him. The only thing I can do now is try to keep calm.
But so many fears fight for first place.
It’s a tumble and a full-on battle in my mind, but the worst wins: What if this time breaks me?
Father won’t let me die, but there are worse things than death. Not being enough of the man I’m supposed to be to stand up for my brother is a living death. I have to make sure before he locks me in.
“You promised to send Griffon to another school,” I say just above a whisper, closing my eyes briefly, taking a breath. Don’t tug, don’t tug … you’re not in a straitjacket, you’re in a regular jacket that’s just a bit tight …
“I agreed to your request in exchange for your compliance.”
“And I’ve complied.” I keep my eyes hard.
He wants my obedience, not a gutless coward.
I’ll be the head of this family someday.
That doesn’t mean I’m not scared. He can keep me locked away for a long time.
But I need to know that he made the change to my younger brother’s registration.
Father had planned for him to join me at North Point this year, but Griffon wanted Shadowridge U.
We were able to delay his entry into college, but Father let him know last January that his time was up.
The regular population can’t arrange a switch that quickly, but Father can.
Enough money and connections buy you just about anything.
I fought for Griffon to get what he wanted.
North Point isn’t for gentle souls like Griffon.
Rosaline, my baby sister, will be safe at Harvard, and she’s safe generally.
Father has a soft spot for her. He’s hard on us all, but Rosaline is a daddy’s girl.
She doesn’t have a fucking clue what Father does to Griffon and me, and we’d like to keep it that way.
“Then there shouldn’t be a problem.”
That’s not an answer. I squeeze my fists within the confines of the unforgiving canvas, but that makes the material tug, defining my cage.
My heart rate hammers this time, the intense desire to fight my way out of this jacket burning like acid, so I’ll just move, if only to reassure myself that I can.
Except I know I can’t, so I’ve got to trick myself into thinking I can.
“You promised,” I say at the risk of sounding like a child.
“I promised nothing. Take him.”
I move my arms to reach for his lying fucking neck, but they don’t go anywhere. And the jig is up—the one between me and my brain. It knows, and it flips the fuck out.
“Get me out, get me out of this. Please.” A scream scrapes out of my throat, wrenching my shoulder back, trying to rip myself outta this thing. “I can’t … can’t breathe. I can’t breathe.”
Hands grab me. I fight harder, kicking, tugging, tugging, frantic jerking of my shoulders that won’t tear this thing no matter how hard I try. There’s pressure on my chest, but it’s not from the men; it’s the constricting doom of the bondage I’ve been forced into.
That’s the moment the drowning begins. There’s no more breath, no more space, just ever-encroaching tightness.
I’m going to die. I know I’m going to die.
The edges of the room blur, but the humming comes.
Father. I don’t know why he does it, but it’s fucking eerie.
It’s the kind of haunt that finds me in my nightmares.
And, oddly, I become still. I don’t know why I do that either. Nothing about his weird-ass humming is relaxing. There’s a prick, a little bee sting, and then darkness.
My mind claws up, up, up, its seventh attempt to surface. But my eyes refuse to open, lids too heavy, brain swimming in murk while my muscles ignore me. I make a sound, a long groan, forced and muted. The only way I know for sure I’m still alive.
There’s a low woosh, then a deep rushing roar.
The water starts at my feet, the cold biting straight into bone, sending a jolting wave screaming through my nerves, and forcing my eyes open.
But it doesn’t matter, I’m cloaked in darkness.
Iron shackles cinch around my ankles, pinching the skin.
I can’t move anything, not even my neck.
The canvas of the straitjacket scratches when I try to move. My absolute worst fucking nightmare.
It’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay.
I repeat it like a mantra, even though nothing is okay.
At least I know where I am—not that it’s comforting.
This vertical tank is one of Grandfather’s creations, the fucking psychotic old bastard.
His take on an ice bath. He specialized in torture devices, most of which were used on my father and his siblings.
As fucked up as my father is, sometimes I’m amazed that he possesses any modicum of humanity at all.
He … tries. But he’s like Jekyll and Hyde, arguing with the demons in his head.
The cold water buries me, racing up my body.
But I’m trapped, breath hitching violently.
My head will be covered soon, and there’s nowhere for me to go.
I don’t know if it’s worse or better knowing what’s going to happen.
Panic will make it worse. I won’t hit the beat in time, that last moment before the water covers my nose and mouth. I need as much oxygen as I can get.
Terror slips under my skin, making my heart race as I fight not to scream, the cold steadily claiming more of me.
One, two, three, inhale …