Page 65 of Property of Max
But I still feel trapped.
Patch’s voice keeps replaying in my head. He explained who had Bree. Not by name, but by what kind of man he was. His words were careful, measured, like he was trimming them down so they wouldn’t crush me. But even the pieces he gave me were enough. I understood. I understood all too well.
The couch beneath me is soft, but it might as well be stone. My hands twist together in my lap until my knuckles ache, and every breath tastes too shallow, like the air is pressing down on me.
I don’t know Cortez. I’ve never even heard his name before today. But I don’t have to know him to feel the danger. To picture Bree in a place where the walls aren’t warm, where she isn’t safe and happy. My baby is out there, and every second feels like a punishment.
Patch said I needed to stay here. That my body has been pushed too far, too long, and the fainting is a warning I can’t ignore. He said Max was only protecting me by leaving me behind, but my chest still hurts with the sting of it. I wanted to fight him. To scream. To run after him. But when Patch looked me in the eye and told me I could do permanent damage to myself, I knew Max was right.
It doesn’t stop me from being angry.
It doesn’t stop me from feeling useless while some vile man is possibly doing unspeakable things to my little girl.
So I sit here, surrounded by walls that should comfort me, but don’t. Walls that make me feel caged when all I want is to fight for my daughter.
And all I can do is wait. Wait and pray the man I’m quickly falling in love with will bring Bree back to me.
***Max***
The house is too quiet.
No lights. No cars in the drive. No hum of a TV bleeding through the walls. Just a dark, empty shell sitting a mile away from the nearest neighbor. My gut twists hard, screamingtrap,but I shove it down. Bree’s in there. I can feel it in my bones.
“Only one heat signature,” Foster whispers. “But it’s hard to pinpoint where. There’s a natural heating stream behind the house that’s interfering with my readings.”
“We split up,” Spike says, urging us forward.
We slip through the front door without a sound. Too easy. Way too damn easy. Spike signals us forward, and we sweep through each room with the discipline of men who’ve done this before. Every corner, every closet, every shadow. Nothing.
The lights don’t work. Foster says the outside wiring has been cut. The only sound is our boots against the floor and the faint creak of the house settling around us. My unease sharpens with every empty room.
“Here,” Spike says, stopping in the kitchen. He grips what looks like a pantry door, tugging it open. Instead of shelves, a narrow staircase drops several steps into another room. The air coming up from it is stale, wrong.
We move down, one by one, guns ready. Another door waits at the bottom. Spike pushes it open, and my stomach lurches at what’s inside.
It’s dark, but our flashlights sweep the room, spilling light across a nightmare. A small pink princess bed sits in one corner, delicate and wrong in this place. Beside it, a rack of tiny clothes. Dozens of outfits, all meant for a little girl.
The opposite side of the room is bare. Tripods line each corner, with one set dead center, waiting.
“Fuck,” Foster breathes, voice tight.
“Over here,” Maverick calls, standing at the far wall. He nods at a door, shut tight, a heavy deadbolt securing it from the outside.
My throat closes. My chest aches. “I can’t fucking breathe,” I admit, low and raw.
Spike glances at me. “Want me to go first?”
I shake my head. No. Bree is mine.
Maverick works the bolt, swinging the door open fast. My gun is already aimed. Finger brushing the trigger.
At first, the room looks empty. Bare concrete floor. A small window set high in the wall, thick glass sealed against sound. The air is cold, stale, suffocating.
“They made sure no one could hear anything happening inside this room,” Maverick growls. “Even that window’s reinforced.”
We’re about to move on when a beam of light catches the far corner.
And there she is.
