Page 67 of Property of Max
“I’m so sorry,” he pants. “I’m so sorry I didn’t find her sooner.”
It’s not his fault. I don’t blame him. But my throat is a knot, words lodged too deep to dig out. So, I just grip his shoulder hard, shake my head once, and hope he understands.
Then I turn back to Bree, pressing my hand over her tiny chest, as if my heartbeat can drag hers along with it. If sheer will could keep her alive, she’d never stop breathing.
Maverick is bleeding from a cut along his brow, but he’s laughing like a madman, furious and alive. Bones stays on Bree, whispering soft, useless things into her hair, checking pulse, counting breaths. I keep my head bowed over her, fingers finding the small, ragged rise of her chest. It’s there. It’s weak, but it’s there.
It doesn’t take long before Spike has the truck slamming to a stop in front of the ambulance bay of the hospital.
“Give her to me,” Bones snaps, hand already reaching.
I hesitate, clutching Bree tighter.
“Dammit, Max, let me have her. You need to get stitched up before you fucking die.”
It’s only then that I feel it…the hot burn down my back, the wetness soaking through my shirt.
“You were hit by shrapnel,” he growls. “It’s bleeding bad. Now give me the girl and follow me.”
I nod, throat still closed up, and do as he says. Passing her over rips something inside me, but I obey. Words still won’t come.
The next hours blur. Doctors, needles, the sharp sting of stitches, the cold questions of cops. None of it matters. My only thought is getting back to Bree.
Spike finds me as I pull on a clean shirt, his expression carved in stone. “She was shot,” he says flatly. “Bullet’s out. She’ll be fine.”
Fine. Yes.
But she was fucking shot.
Cortez shot my daughter.
Spike exhales hard, his gaze cutting to mine. “He told her the bomb was timed for five minutes the second someone entered the house. We were damn lucky we got out when we did.”
My chest is a raw, aching thing. The hollow that’s lived in me for so long twists tighter with every breath, then loosens when I picture my daughter alive. Bree is breathing. That’s everything.
The rest…the rage, the hunt, the war that’s coming…can wait. But not for long.
We got her out. We cleared the door. We almost didn’t make it.
And now the hunt is on.
“Come on,” Spike says, guiding me out of the room. “Lila and Bree have been asking for you for over an hour.”
“Why the fuck didn’t you tell me Bree was awake and my woman was here?” I demand, furious at being kept in the dark.
“Because you had a piece of that house stuck right next to your lung,” he reminds me. “I knew you’d be out of the room in a heartbeat, and I needed you alive. They need you alive.”
Okay, so maybe he’s got a point.
“They’re in here,” he says, showing me the room and moving to sit with our brothers in the waiting room.
I pause in the doorway, hand braced on the frame like it’s the only thing keeping me upright. For the first time since we pulled her out of that hellhole, I can breathe.
Bree’s propped up in bed, a plastic cup of pudding in her hands, spoon clutched tight like it’s treasure. She looks small, pale, but her eyes are open. Awake. Alive. Lila sits beside her, smoothing hair from her face, whispering something that makes Bree smile.
My knees nearly give.
I step inside, and both of them look up. Lila’s eyes shine with tears that don’t fall, her mouth trembling into a smile meant for me. I cross the room in three strides and pull her against me, burying my face in her hair.
