Page 170 of Hymns of the Broken
But all I can see is Sawyer—trapped, afraid, still fighting to hold on.
And the promise blazes hot in my chest:
You’ll never keep her. Not from me. Not from us.
Riot slams his fist into the wall, voice breaking. “We’re coming for you, Sawyer. Just hold on. We’re coming.”
SAWYER
I’ve completely lost track of time. My mouth is dry, my body aches. Sometimes I think I hear the guys’ voices, just a memory replaying in the dark. I try to convince myself I’m alone, that he’s gone, that maybe I’ll wake up and this will all be a nightmare.
My skin prickles. My chest tightens. The little hairs on my arms stand up, every instinct screaming danger.
I force my head up, swallowing hard, eyes scanning the dim corners of the room.
At first, nothing.
Then, movement—a shape in the darkest corner.
He’s there… Sitting in the chair again.
So still, so quiet, I wonder if he’s been there the whole time, watching me fall apart. My skin crawls at the thought—how many times did I let myself cry, thinking I was alone?
The silver and black mask glints as he leans forward, elbows on his knees, head cocked like I’m an animal in a cage he’s trying to decide how to break.
There’snothing human behind that mask, just the cold calculation of a predator.
My heart thuds so loudly I’m sure he can hear it. I want to scream, but I can’t make a sound. My voice is lost somewhere deep inside, knotted up with panic.
He’s watching.
He’s waiting.
And I realize he wants me afraid.
He’s feeding on it.
I refuse to give him what he wants. But the fear is a living thing inside me, gnawing, growing, curling tighter with every second I spend under that mask’s gaze. I try to focus on the faces I love—Jasper, Riot, Macee—but it’s so hard to hold on to light in all this darkness.
All I can do is hold on.
Hold on and hope someone’s coming.
Please, someone…
He stands without a word, every movement deliberate and slow. The mask gleams in the half-light as he crosses the room, stopping at the foot of the bed. Both gloved hands settle heavy on my ankles, the weight like shackles all over again. I flinch, instinct taking over, trying to twist away—even though I know there’s nowhere to go. The cuffs bite my wrists, skin already raw.
Any thought of hiding my fear is gone. The panic is raw and electric, rolling through me with every touch. My body betrays me; my muscles are jumping, and my breath is stuttering.
He tightens his grip and drags me down the bed, closer, until the chains on my wrists go tight and cold, biting into my skin. I gasp, back arching, wrists straining as my legs are forced open, my body fully exposed and helpless. I can’t help the broken sound that slips out of me—somewhere between a gasp and a sob.
He rubs his hands up my thighs, rough and possessive, like he’s trying to wipe away everything that came before him. My skin crawls. I stare at the ceiling, willing myself to disappear, to become nothing. I squeeze my eyes shut, counting breaths, praying he’ll get bored and leave.
“Did you like the photos? The ones I sent you?”
My chest seizes. “Stop—”
“And the fire,” he murmurs, almost gentle. “Did you like that, too?”
