Page 9 of Property of Fox

“Good.” He turns toward the door, his leather jacket swishing behind him like warning flags as he moves away. “You’ll be safe inside. Don’t give me another reason to worry.”

The moment he leaves, the air buzzes with unspoken words between my mother and me.

“Mom, why did you do that?”

“Hush,” she hisses at me. “Wait until he’s gone.”

I cross my arms tight against my chest, bracing myself against the onslaught of emotions threatening to spill over. “What’s the point of waiting? He’s already made it clear that we don’t have a say in this house anyway!”

“Please, Brea,” my mother whispers harshly, glancing toward the door as if Tank might burst back in at any moment. “You know how he is. He does this… to protect us.”

“Protect us?” I scoff, unable to keep the disbelief from edging into my tone. “He beats on you, Mom. Don’t pretend like he doesn’t. We both know I’ve seen the bruises or the way you flinch when he raises his voice at you. He’s abusing you.”

Her eyes dart nervously around the room as if looking for an escape route, her lips pressed tight together. "He's not perfect, Brea, but he provides for us. He keeps us safe."

"Safe from what?" I demand, my voice rising. "The only thing we need protection from is him!"

My mother's face crumples, and she sinks into a kitchen chair. "You don't understand, sweetheart. There are things...complications...you don't know about."

I lean against the counter, crossing my arms. "Then explain it to me, Mom. Because from where I'm standing, we're prisoners in our own home."

She shakes her head, tears welling in her eyes. "I can't, Brea. I just...I can't."

The frustration bubbling inside me threatens to spill over. I want to shake her, to make her see sense. “You don’t have to live this way, Mom. We could leave. Just the two of us. We could start over without him.”

“I can’t,” she sobs.

“Then what? Do you expect me to just sit back and watch him beat on you and control my life?” My heart races, pumping indignation through my veins as if it could fuel me to fight this battle.

“Yes.” Her answer is simple but heavy with regret.

I swallow hard and turn away, fists clenching at my sides. What kind of life is this? I’ve spent years trying to carve out my own identity outside his suffocating influence.

I press my palms against the cold countertop to ground myself, letting the chill seep in as I wrestle with my thoughts.

"Mom, you can't just accept this as our reality," I say, the intensity in my voice rising. I whirl around to face her again. "We deserve so much more.”

Her gaze falls to the floor, and for a moment, I see a flicker of something, maybe envy—or is it fear? “It isn’t just us, Brea. There are consequences you don’t see.”

“And what are those consequences?” I demand, frustration boiling over. “More threats? More rules? This isn't living!”

Before she can respond, the front door creaks open, and a tall figure fills the doorway. Dread knots in my stomach as I recognize one of Tank's club prospects, Razor.

“Tank said you two are staying put,” Razor says with an air of indifference. His leather vest adorned with patches that tell stories I'd rather not dive into. “I’m here to make sure you don’t step outside.”

I meet his cold gaze defiantly, but inside, I'm quaking. The man’s presence amplifies every terrible thing that Tank had threatened. My mother moves quickly to stand beside me, her hands gesturing helplessly as if she could weave a shield between Razor and me.

“Go back outside,” I snap at him, summoning all my remaining strength.

“Cute,” he replies, his voice dripping with condescension. “But you don’t get to call the shots here.”

“This is my house.”

“You mean, it’s Tank’s house. I doubt your name is on the deed, sweetness.”

I force myself to stand tall, my heart racing like a motorcycle revving for a race. “I’m not scared of you or him,” I spit back, though my insides tremble with every word.

“Is that right?” Razor takes a single step forward, closing the space between us. The air thickens with tension, a volatile concoction of hostility and irritation simmering just beneath the surface. He leans closer, his presence crushing. “You don’t know what you’re asking for.”

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