Page 46 of Beautiful Scars: Unshakeable (The Beautiful Scars Duet #2)

Chapter Forty

Sunny

I stare at the framed print on the wall beside me. A beautiful watercolor landscape that Jade gave me for my birthday last year. I fell in love with it immediately and hung it up in my bedroom. I wanted to make sure I could see it first thing every morning when I opened my eyes.

I'm focusing on the colors one by one, trying to distract myself from the burning in my wrists where the rope bites into my skin.

The leather couch beneath me feels sticky against my bare back, and I shift, trying to find a position that hurts less because that's all there is now. Pain and sometimes less pain.

My stomach churns as Garrett's footsteps echo from somewhere upstairs. The sound grows closer, each step making my heart race faster. I close my eyes, fighting back tears. I won't cry. I won't give him that satisfaction.

"You doing okay, Sunny?" His voice drips with false concern as he enters the room.

I nod, keeping my eyes fixed on the blue of the sky before sliding them over to the green of the hills. The mattress where I hid the tracker is just visible from here. I resist the urge to look at it.

Three days. Three days of this twisted game where he pretends this underground prison is some kind of home for the two of us.

Three days of alternating between torture and fucked-up tenderness that makes me cringe.

My body aches from yesterday's "lesson" about respect.

The welts on my thighs throb in time with my heartbeat.

"Such a shame you're still bleeding," Garrett sighs, running his fingers through my hair. I fight the urge to flinch away. "But there are so many other ways for us to play, aren't there?"

I bite the inside of my cheek until I taste blood. The pain I inflict on myself helps keep me focused. It keeps me present and from falling apart completely.

Where are they? The thought sneaks in despite my best efforts to keep it out. I need to keep focused on the minutes right in front of me, not the ones that may never come.

But, if Zane and Levi were coming, wouldn't they be here by now? Of course, the tracker could be dead. Or maybe it doesn't work through all this concrete and dirt. Maybe Garrett led them somewhere else entirely. Maybe they changed their mind. Maybe they're letting me live my choice.

I knew when I left there was a strong possibility that it was for good. That there was a chance I wouldn't be found. I knew it would hurt. I knew I would miss the life I was walking away from—I just didn't realize how much.

Garrett's hand tightens in my hair, yanking my head back. "Oh no. You don't get to check out on me. Not yet."

I force myself to meet his eyes. They're different now—crazier, more unhinged than before. The warehouse raid broke something in him. Or maybe revealed even more of what was always there.

"I'm not," I whisper, hating how weak my voice sounds.

"Good girl." His praise makes bile rise in my throat. "Now, shall we try something new today?"

Tomorrow the period excuse won't work anymore. He knows it. I know it. The thought settles in my gut and makes me nauseous.

But Jade is safe. That thought burns bright through the darkness threatening to swallow me whole. She's safe with Colt and the others. Even if this is where my story ends, I saved my best friend. Gave her the chance to have the kind of life she deserves with someone she loves.

I'd make the same choice again. Or I'd like to believe I would..

Garrett pulls his knife out of the sheath hanging from his belt letting the blade catch the light. "You've been so quiet today. I don't like it. Let's see if we can make you sing. Or maybe we could go visit the play room again?"

The thought of being dragged back into that room—with it's shiny metal table and rows and rows of tools and toys—is unbearable.

I close my eyes, retreating into memories of mornings filled with soft, slow kisses with Zane. Of Levi's arms around me. Of feeling safe and loved.

The first cut comes, and I bite back a scream.

I vow that I won't give him what he wants. But as the blade starts tracing patterns on my skin, I wonder how much longer I can hold out.

I think I overestimated myself and my bravery.

The hopelessness creeps in slowly, thick and heavy. Each breath feels harder to drag in than the last. The tracker was my last chance, my only hope. Without it...

No. I can't think like that. Can't let him win. But as Garrett's knife continues to dance across my flesh, I feel pieces of myself, ones I've worked so hard to put back together, start to crack and splinter.

"You're thinking about them, aren't you?" Garrett's voice turns sharp. "Your precious Zane and Levi. Do you think they're coming to save you?" He laughs, the sound echoing off the concrete walls. "They couldn't protect you before. They can't protect you now."

I try to hold onto memories of strength—of training with Chase, of Jade's fierce friendship, of feeling whole lying between Zane and Levi. But they slip through my fingers like smoke as Garrett's torture continues.

The painting's colors blur as tears finally escape despite my best efforts. Three days. Just three days and I'm already starting to crumble. The thought fills me with shame, but I can't stop the tears now that they've started.

"There you are," Garrett whispers, wiping away a tear with mock tenderness. "I knew you were in there."

I turn my head away, focusing on the mattress where the tracker lies hidden. If it's still working. If anyone can find it. If, if, if...

The blade bites deeper, and this time I can't hold back the scream. It echoes off the walls of this underground hell, and I hear Garrett's satisfied sigh.

"Now that’s music to my ears."

The door clicks shut behind Garrett, and I count his footsteps as they fade up the stairs. One. Two. Three... Fifteen. The heavy thud of the upper door. Then silence.

My legs shake as I push myself up from the leather couch, rope burns circle both of my wrists. Blood trickles down my body, from dozens of cuts. Painful, but only a few are deep enough to cause any permanent scars.

I head to the bathroom and start the shower. When I step in, the water turns red as it sluices down my body before it swirls down the drain.

I press my forehead against the cold tile, letting the water run over the fresh cuts I can feel crisscrossing my back. Each one stings enough to steal my breath, but this pain is almost welcome compared to what I know is coming. Almost.

"Go clean yourself up," he'd said, voice dripping false concern. "Wouldn't want you getting an infection."

Yeah, I'm sure that's what's going to end up doing me in.

My hands shake as I reach for the soap—the same brand I used at home. The familiar scent turns my stomach now. Everything here is a skewed mirror of my life—all my favorite things corrupted by him.

How long? How long can I survive this?

I've been able to count the days by the light in the window well that comes through. But, it's only a matter of time before I lose them. Before I stop paying attention. Stop caring.

If this is the way things are going to be, if nothing changes, I know I could last weeks. I've done it before. But months? Years?

Years.

The soap slips from my trembling fingers, clattering against the tile. My knees buckle and I slide down the shower wall, wrapping my arms around myself.

Years of his knife, his fists, his hands, and his games. Years of watching pieces of myself get destroyed and stolen and washed down the drain until there's nothing left.

How long will it take to make me forget what it felt like to be loved, to be safe? To make me forget who I was outside of here?

Part of me thinks it can't come soon enough.

The water runs pink around my feet. I stare at it, remembering other showers, other times I've lived this moment, or one similar, out. But this time is different. This time I think my luck has finally run out.

Maybe it would be better, easier at least, if I start accepting that this is my life now. This is it. This is all I have.

At least until my body gives out. Until my mind splinters into too many pieces to ever get back.

I mean, realistically, how many cuts can I endure before I bleed out? How many times can a bone break before they stop healing? How many times will he force me to show him how much I love him before my soul dies completely?

Too many.

But he's too careful, too controlled. He won't let it happen quickly. This is his revenge—not just on me, but on everyone who tried to protect me from him. On Levi for daring to love me first. On Zane for making me feel safe. On Jade for being a friend.

The water starts running cold but I barely notice. My skin is numb, inside and out. I should get up. Should take the advice and clean these cuts before they get infected. Should try to stay strong.

But what's the point? Even if the tracker works, even if they find this place, how long until I end up back with him? I can see how pointless trying to run has been. This is my fate.

I close my eyes, remembering Zane's gentle kisses, Levi's soft feather-light touches. The way they made me feel whole, made me believe I deserved more than what I'd ever been given.

The memory hurts worse than any of this. I’d started believing in it. Started believing I could have it. Have them.

Water pools around me. Old wounds, new wounds, they all blend together. My body is a testament to how much pain I can live through. And there will be more. So much more.

I press my hand against the newest cuts on my thigh, feeling the sting. These ones spell out "MINE" in jagged letters. As if I could forget. At least they don’t seem deep enough to leave a scar. Yet.

The shaking won't stop. Cold or shock or fear—does it matter?

Please don't let it be years.

The thought comes unbidden, a prayer to whatever god might be listening. Please don't let me live through years of this. Please let my body give out sooner rather than later. Please don't let me forget who I was before this. Please don't let me forget them.

The water finally runs clear, all evidence of today's torture swirling down the drain. But there will be more blood tomorrow. And the next day. And the next.

Until there isn't.

I force myself to stand on shaking legs, to reach for the towel—another perfect match to the ones I had at home. Every detail designed to remind me of the life he stole and that freedom was always an illusion.

The mirror shows my reflection—pale, hollow-eyed. I look like a ghost. The thought that maybe I am plays over and over in my mind.

Maybe Levi and Z never found me.

Maybe I never left that warehouse.

Maybe I really am in hell.