Page 88 of Property of Fox

As he moves further into the room, the light catches his face, and I have to stifle a gasp. It's Fox, but he looks like he's been through hell. His chiseled features are a patchwork of angry purple and sickly yellow bruises. His left eye swollen nearly shut. Even in the dim light, I can see the way his tattooed arms are mottled with fresh contusions, and he's favoring his right leg as he limps towards the bed.

“How the hell do you keep getting in here, Bruce?” Fox's good eye widens in surprise as he realizes I'm awake.

“Hi,” I manage. My throat dry.

Fox freezes, his hand hovering mid-air. The silence stretches between us, thick and uncomfortable. I can hear the rapid thump of my own heartbeat in my ears.

"You're awake," he says finally, his voice rougher than usual. He clears his throat. "How are you feeling?"

The question catches me off guard. How am I feeling? Confused. Terrified. Relieved. All of the above.

"I'm...okay," I lie, pushing myself up to sit against the headboard. Bruce settles into my lap, a warm, comforting presence. “Where am I?”

"My house," he says, his words careful and measured. "The club's doctor came to see us both here. It was safer than a hospital. No one to ask questions. Between Hallie and Keira, you’ve had round-the-clock supervision. Keira just left. I’ve been taking the night shift.”

“How long have I been asleep?”

“A couple of days. Doc kept you pretty sedated for the first forty-eight hours. You needed rest.”

Memories flicker at the edges of my consciousness. The acrid smell of gunpowder, Tank's meaty hands reaching for me. I shudder, pushing the thoughts away.

"Are you okay?" I ask, studying his battered face in the dim light. Even through the bruises, I can see the sharp line of his jaw clenching.

"I'm fine," he says, but the way he winces as he shifts tells a different story.

I raise an eyebrow, surprised by how badly I want to call him out on the lie. "Really? Because you look like you went ten rounds with a meat grinder…and lost."

A ghost of a smile flickers across his face, there and gone in an instant. "You should see the other guy."

Fox's attempt at humor falls flat, the corners of his mouth twitching slightly before a shadow crosses his face. The onceplayful glint in his eyes dims, replaced by a haunted expression that causes my stomach to churn uneasily. Running a hand through his short brown hair, he winces as his fingers graze a particularly nasty bruise on his temple. "I'm sorry," he says quietly.

I swallow hard, my fingers absently stroking Bruce's silky fur as I gather the courage to ask the question burning on my tongue. "What...what happened?" The words come out barely above a whisper, as if speaking them any louder might shatter the fragile sense of safety I've found in this unfamiliar room.

Fox's expression darkens, his jaw clenching so tight I can see a muscle twitching beneath the bruised skin. He takes a halting step towards the bed, then seems to think better of it, leaning against the doorframe instead. The silence stretches between us, heavy with unspoken words and barely contained violence.

“How much do you remember?”

I close my eyes, trying to piece together the fragmented memories. Tank and what he tried to do comes flooding back to me. The feel of his hands on me. How close I came to him, to him… I force the thought from my head. I can’t think about that right now. It’s too much. “Enough,” I admit. “But it all gets a little fuzzy before it’s just blank.” A chill runs down my spine, and I clutch Bruce closer, drawing comfort from his warm, tiny body. The little dog whimpers softly, sensing my distress. I take a deep breath, steeling myself for what I'm about to ask.

"Is...is Tank dead?"

Fox's good eye meets mine, unflinching. "Yes."

The single word hangs in the air between us, heavy with implications. I should feel relieved, I think. Instead, I just feel numb. My fingers tremble as I stroke Bruce's fur, trying to ground myself in the moment.

"And my mom?" I whisper, dreading the answer but needing to know.

Fox's gaze drops to the floor, and my heart plummets. The silence stretches, each second feeling like an eternity. When he finally looks back up, his eyes are filled with a mixture of anger and sorrow that makes my breath catch in my throat.

"I'm so sorry, Brea," he says softly, confirming my worst fears.

A strangled sob escapes me as the reality of his words sinks in. Tank's cruel, taunting voice echoes in my mind, his boasts about my mother's fate no longer just empty threats.

“We left a few of the Hellions alive. They confessed where she is. Van and Orion are on their way to find her and bring her home. What happens after that is your call.”

I feel like I'm drowning, caught in a riptide of conflicting emotions. My mom...gone. The word echoes in my mind, hollow and unreal. I should be devastated, shouldn't I? Overcome with grief, inconsolable at the loss of the woman who brought me into this world. But instead, I feel...numb. Empty. Like I'm watching someone else's tragedy unfold from a distance.

Bruce whimpers softly, nuzzling against my hand. I focus on the warmth of his tiny body, the silky texture of his fur beneath my fingertips. It's easier than confronting the storm raging inside me.

---