Page 105 of Savage

“Probably not. You know how those rich fuckers are. They hoard all the wealth for themselves.” Dylan shakes his head, and I see some of the passion I remember from our early days together. “I looked into him. Doctor Perfect, sterling reputation, but he’s a fucking hypocrite, isn’t he? I mean, you and me, we did shit because we were desperate. That fucking prick does stuff because he thinks the world owes him.” He stands up, putting his phone in his back pocket, and walks over to me. The smile is familiar, and it would almost be possible to forget exactly what he’s doing…

Except he’s still holding the gun.

Except I’m still leashed.

“What the fuck makes him better than me, anyway?” Dylan growls, grabbing my hair. “The world bends for him because he was born rich, but the rest of us, we gotta claw our way up and still nothing ever goes our way.”

He’s not wrong, and I can’t even say I disagree. Dr. Hunter Savage had an incredible advantage by being born into that family, but… I remember the way he talks to, and about, his family. Maybe there’s a price for being born into that life.

God, Alicia would laugh at me if she heard me defending anyone like that. She hadn’t been as passionate as Dylan was, but she’d still had very strong opinions on capitalism and supposedly high-ranking members of society.

I think she’d have regretted introducing me to Dylan in time, though, especially because of the drugs. That part, she never would’ve been okay with.

And god, I want those drugs right now. I want to fall into oblivion, to escape deep inside of myself where nothing hurts, where I don’t have to think about the fact that the phone never rang, that Hunter won’t pay a ransom for me, that I’m just utterly useless now as anything but a fucked-out whore.

I squeak when Dylan pulls my head toward his crotch.

“I promised you something earlier, didn’t I?” Dylan says.

I shake my head. “Please, no. I don’t want to, Dylan.”

He laughs and tugs my hair harder. “What, you get used to his billion-dollar cock? You don’t want to live like the plebs anymore?”

I’d told him I’d behave, but at the same time… What’s really at stake anymore? I’d only said those things to get him out of Hunter’s home, and now…

Now, I really don’t fucking care if he shoots me or not. Maybe death really would be better than living like this.

My wrists itch, and I have to fight not to claw at the healing scars hidden beneath my sweatshirt.

“I can’t,” I whisper, and fuck, am I ever going to stop crying? How is it even possible for one person to cry this much?

Dylan makes an annoyed sound and rolls his eyes, but he shoves me away from him. “Fuck, I forgot how boring you are when you’re sober.” He strides over to a cabinet on the far wall and opens one of the drawers.

I already know what’s coming, but that doesn’t stop my whimper when Dylan turns around with a syringe in hand.

“Come on, Bela, let’s have some real fun.”

At least if I have to live like this, I don’t have to go through it with the clear mind I’ve developed over the past few months. But I’ve worked so hard to get to this point, and I don’t want to lose all that progress now.

I fucking care for the first time in my life, and while I’d gladly take death in this moment, I don’t want to lose myself to drugs again. I don’t want to become that person again, that hollow-eyed waif who’d do anything for another high. I want to be the girl who longs to get an education, to understand graduate-level science, who loves to bake fresh bread.

I can’t believe I thought I could really be those things.

I can’t believe I’m giving in to Dylan so easily.

“No,” I say, shaking my head as I reach up to untie the leash. “No. I came with you. I said I’d fuck and suck who you want me to, but I don’t want the drugs.”

I do. I fucking do. I want them so bad it aches.

And why not? Hunter doesn’t fucking care.

But I care, and that kills me.

And maybe Hunter does care, and maybe he will come, and what would he think if he knew how easily I’d given in to addiction when he’d worked so hard to get me through that hell?

“Bela, babe,” Dylan says, squatting down next to me and gripping my wrist tight enough to hurt.

I want to tell him to stop calling me Bela. I’m not that person anymore. I don’t want to be that person.

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