Page 44 of Beautiful Scars: Unshakeable (The Beautiful Scars Duet #2)

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Sunny

I'm jolted against the cold metal underneath me as the truck hits another bump. My teeth chatter—from cold or fear, I'm not sure anymore. The chains binding my wrists and ankles clink together with each movement, a harsh reminder of my current reality.

Garrett's "inspection" had been thorough. Every piece of clothing torn away, every inch of skin checked for wires or trackers. His fists left fresh bruises blooming across my skin when he found nothing—his way of punishing me for making him work so hard to get me back.

A bitter laugh escapes my cracked lips. For all his meticulous searching, his one weakness had saved me. The moment I'd mentioned my period, he'd recoiled like I'd slapped him.

You're disgusting. No better than a fucking animal.

Even now, curled naked in the back of his truck, I can't help but find the dark humor in it. The man who'd tortured and terrorized me for years, who left me to die after carving me open, who'd killed without remorse—gets squeamish at the mere mention of period blood.

So squeamish he couldn't even check to see if I was lying because the thought made him gag.

It's always been his thing. Those sacred four or five days each month that made me untouchable—given me my only guaranteed reprieve.

The tracker sits safely inside me, undetected. As long as its battery holds out, there's hope. Levi and Zane will come. The thought of them sends an ache through my chest. The letter I left...

Another bump sends me sliding across the truck bed.

I wrap my arms around myself tighter, trying to preserve what little warmth remains.

My mind drifts to Jade, hoping she made it back safely.

That's what matters. That's why this was worth it.

I may never know for sure, but I want to believe she did. I have to believe that.

"Almost there, Angel." Garrett's voice drifts back from the cab, making my skin crawl. He's been talking since we left—a constant stream of possessive rambles. How he loves me. How this time he'll never, ever let me go. I don't doubt any of his words.

I press my forehead against the cold metal floor, focusing on the engine's vibrations instead of his voice. Each mile brings me closer to the end I've chosen for myself.

I hope they find me—I really do—and I'll keep fighting as long as I can. But I also need to prepare myself for this being it. For this being all there is left for me.

The truck takes a sharp turn, throwing me against the side wall. Fresh pain explodes across my already bruised body. I bite back a cry, refusing to give him the satisfaction. Through the small back window, I catch glimpses of trees against a pre-dawn sky. We've been driving for hours.

"You know why I had to punish you earlier, don't you?" His tone carries that familiar false concern. "If you'd just stayed with me from the start, I wouldn't have had to hurt you. Everything I do is to protect you."

I stay silent. He's not expecting an answer. This monologue is for his benefit, not mine. Each word reveals more of his fractured reality—a world where obsession equals love, where possession means protection.

The truck begins to slow. Gravel crunches under the tires.

My heart rate spikes, but I force my breathing to remain steady.

Whatever comes next, I have to stay focused.

The tracker is my lifeline. As long as it remains undetected, there's hope.

I have at least four days before the battery and signal die, if what Z told me was accurate.

I think of Zane's quiet strength, of Levi's fierce protection. Of Chase teaching me to break holds and use weapons, of Jade's unwavering friendship. Of the family I found. The love I never thought I'd have again after Dad died.

The engine cuts off. The driver's door opens, then closes. Footsteps approach the back of the truck.

I close my eyes and steady myself, trying to prepare for what comes next.

My head spins as Garrett hauls me from the truck bed, his grip bruising against my bare skin. The world tilts as he throws me over his shoulder like a sack of flour. Each step jostles my tired, aching body, but I clench my jaw against the pain.

The night air bites at my exposed skin. Through my tangled hair, I catch glimpses of a house looming ahead—not the industrial buildings or warehouses I'd been expecting.

This is a real house, with landscaping and a forest of trees surrounding it.

My stomach drops as understanding hits. This isn't a temporary holding place.

"Welcome home, Angel." His hand squeezes my thigh possessively. "I've been preparing this place for you—for us—for years."

Years. The word echoes in my head as he carries me up the front steps. The door opens to warmth and the smell of fresh paint. Everything looks so normal—hardwood floors, framed artwork, a wooden coat rack by the door. It's a carefully crafted illusion of home that makes my skin crawl.

He doesn't put me down, just heads straight for another door. When it swings open, revealing stairs descending into darkness, my heart pounds against my ribs. The basement. Always the basement.

Each step down feels like a descent into hell. Motion sensors trigger lights, illuminating what lies below. When he finally sets me down and I get my bearings, my breath catches.

This isn't a basement—I mean it is, but it's more than that.

It's an apartment. A prison disguised as a home.

The walls are covered in expensive soundproofing panels, their dark fabric absorbing any hope of screams reaching the outside world.

Heavy bars cross each window, painted white to match the trim like a sick parody of normalcy.

"Do you like it?" His voice drips with pride as he takes me on a tour.

A living room with plush furniture. A kitchen with granite countertops. A bathroom with a clawfoot tub and no door. Even a bedroom with a king-sized four-poster bed. Everything a girl could ever want—if she never planned to leave.

"I tried to think of everything. Your art supplies are in that corner. I remembered how much you love to draw."

I sway on my feet, taking in the nightmare around me. My easel from the apartment stands exactly where it had been in my living room. The same brands of paint I use, arranged perfectly on a shelf. He's managed to recreate parts of my life and seal them into this underground tomb.

"The bathroom has all your favorite products." He guides me through the space with his hand pressed against my lower back. "Same shampoo, same lotion. Even got those fancy face masks you like."

Each detail he points out is another weight around my neck. The throw blanket I used to curl up in. The chamomile tea I drink before bed. The precise shade of blue I painted my bedroom walls. He's built a perfect replica of my life—viewed through his twisted lens.

"Look." He pulls me toward a bookshelf. "I've been collecting copies of all your favorites. Even found a first edition of The Secret Garden . I couldn't go back and get the one from the warehouse, but this is even better. You can start over fresh with your notes and markings."

My eyes scan the shelves, recognizing titles from my own collection. But these aren't just similar books—they're exact copies. Dog-eared pages, coffee stains, my handwritten notes in the margins. These are my books. He's stolen pieces of my life, squirreling them away down here.

"The closet's full of clothes in your size." His hands squeeze my shoulders. "Everything you need is right here. No more running. No more hiding. Just us, Princess. The way it should be."

I force myself not to flinch away from his touch. It's disturbing seeing this side of him. I don't know what to do with it.

I need to keep him talking. Keep him believing I'm okay with all of this while I process everything.

"The kitchen's fully stocked." He steers me toward the gleaming appliances.

"I know how much you hate cooking, so I filled the freezer and fridge with easy things—things I know you like.

Thought it might help you adjust. You can always ask if there's anything you want. Need to keep up your strength."

My eyes catch on the knife block on the counter. His grip tightens, reading my thoughts.

"Don't get any ideas, Princess. Everything in here has been carefully considered. The knives are plastic. The windows are bulletproof. The door at the top of the stairs requires both a key code and my fingerprint."

He's thought of everything. Years of watching, planning, preparing this cage. My gaze drifts to the ceiling, noting the cameras in each corner. No blind spots. No escape routes.

"I know it'll take time for you to accept this." His voice softens. "I can't believe I finally have you all to myself. Once things get to a point where you can't run from me, I'll consider letting you upstairs."

I suppress a shudder at the memories his words evoke. I thought I was ready. I thought I knew what to expect, but this…

This is so much more than I could have ever prepared myself for. It's so much worse.

"You must be cold." He releases me, moving to a dresser. "Let's get you cleaned up and dressed. Then I'll make us dinner. I have something special to show you—I had it built specifically for you. For us to share."

I wrap my arms around myself, fighting back nausea as he pulls out familiar pieces of clothing. My clothes. Not copies—actual items I left in my dresser at home. He's stolen them, building this twisted dollhouse around me.

The basement suddenly feels smaller, the walls closing in. He built this for me to live here permanently. A perfectly crafted prison built from all the stolen pieces of my life.

The tracker is still safe. Still undetected. It bought me some time, and that's all I can ask for now.