Property of Fox (Mayhem Makers: Bastard Boilers MC)

29. Brea

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I jolt awake, a scream caught in my throat, my heart pounding like a jackhammer against my ribs. The nightmare of Tank's leering face and grasping hands fades, but the terror lingers, clinging to me like a second skin. Gasping for air, I blink rapidly, trying to orient myself in the darkness.

This isn't my room.

Panic surges anew as I take in the unfamiliar surroundings. The bed beneath me is too soft, the sheets smell of lavender instead of my usual vanilla, and there's something pressing against my side that definitely doesn't belong.

Before I can fully process what's happening, a tiny wet tongue assaults my face, licking away the cold sweat that's broken out across my skin. I yelp in surprise, my hands flying up instinctively.

"What the—?" I sputter, my fingers connecting with silky fur and a tiny, trembling body.

As my eyes adjust to the dim light filtering through unfamiliar curtains, I make out the shape of a Chihuahua, its big eyes shining with concern as it continues to shower me with affection. The little dog's tail wags furiously.

"Hello, little one," I murmur, my racing heart beginning to slow as I scratch behind its ears. "Where did you come from?"

The Chihuahua lets out a high-pitched yip in response, circling excitedly on the bed. A sudden creak of floorboards makes me freeze, my hand stilling on the Chihuahua's head. The bedroom door swings open, a sliver of light from the hallway spilling across the floor. My breath catches in my throat as a tall, muscular figure steps inside, his silhouette backlit by the soft glow behind him.

"Bruce, quiet down," a deep, husky voice whispers. "Don't wake her up."

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 once playful 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.

"Brea?" Fox's voice is gentle, probing. I can feel his eyes on me, searching for a reaction, but I can't bring myself to meet his gaze.

"I...I don't know how to feel," I admit. The words taste like ash in my mouth, bitter and acrid. "She's my mom, you know? I should be falling apart right now. But I just feel...nothing."

Memories flicker through my mind like an old film reel, disjointed and faded around the edges. My mom's smile as she tucked me in at night, her lilting voice singing Irish lullabies. The pride in her eyes when I won the spelling bee in fourth grade. But then, like a record scratch, the good memories give way to the bad. The sting of her slap the last time I saw her before choosing to leave.

"It's okay to feel conflicted," Fox says softly, pulling me from my spiraling thoughts. "Your relationship with her was...complicated."

I let out a bitter laugh. "Complicated. That's one way to put it." I scrub a hand over my face, wincing as my fingers brush against tender skin. "God, what a mess."

Fox takes a tentative step towards the bed, his movements slow and cautious. "May I?" he asks, gesturing to the empty space beside me.

I nod, shifting over to make room. Bruce yips excitedly as Fox lowers himself onto the mattress, his face tight with barely concealed pain. The little dog abandons my lap to curl up against Fox's side, tail wagging furiously. Fox's lips quirk up in a ghost of a smile as he scratches behind Bruce's ears. “He’s been sneaking in here like fucking Houdini. Little fucker growled at me when I tried to share the bed with you. I took the couch.”

“A chihuahua kept you from your own bed?”

“Yeah,” he laughs, wincing at the action. “I’m starting to think he doesn’t like me or, maybe he’s more like me than I thought and knows how to charm beautiful women.”

I feel a blush creep up my cheeks at his words, but I try to brush it off with a weak laugh. "Well, he certainly has good taste."

Fox's eyes meet mine, and for a moment, I see a flicker of something vulnerable beneath the tough exterior. But then it's gone, replaced by his usual cocky grin. "That he does," he agrees, wincing slightly as he shifts position. “Like father, like four-legged son.”

We sit in companionable silence for a few minutes, both of us lost in our own thoughts. Bruce's soft snores fill the quiet room. Finally, I gather the courage to ask the question that's been nagging at me since I woke up.

"What happens now?" My voice sounds small, even to my own ears.

Fox sighs, running a hand through his hair. "That's up to you, Brea. The immediate danger is over, but..." He trails off, his expression darkening. "We have no idea how many chapters they have hidden in the wings.”

A chill runs down my spine at his words. "So, I'm still not safe?"

"You're safe with us," Fox says firmly, his good eye blazing with determination. "The Bastard Boilers protect their own."

I blink, surprised. "Their own? But I'm not?—"

"You are now," he interrupts, his voice brooking no argument. "Whether you like it or not, you're part of this family now."

Family. The word echoes in my mind, stirring up a whirlwind of emotions. Part of me wants to recoil from it, to run as far and fast as I can from this world of violence and danger. But another part, a part I'm almost ashamed to admit exists, feels a warmth spreading through my chest at the thought of belonging somewhere.

"I...I don't know what to say," I whisper, my voice thick with unshed tears.

Fox's hand finds mine on the bed, his calloused fingers enveloping my own. The touch sends a jolt of electricity up my arm, but I don't pull away. "You don't have to say anything," he murmurs. "I told you, firefly, that claim or no claim, I’ll always protect you.”

I nod, unable to form words around the lump in my throat. We sit in silence for a long moment. Bruce sniffles in his sleep, his tiny paws twitching as he chases some dream rabbit.

Fox's thumb traces gentle circles on the back of my hand, the rough calluses a stark contrast to his surprisingly tender touch. The simple gesture grounds me, anchoring me to the present when my mind threatens to spiral into darker thoughts.

"You should try to get some more rest," he says softly, his voice a low rumble in the quiet room. "It's still early."

I nod, suddenly aware of how bone-deep exhausted I am. The adrenaline that's been keeping me going is fading fast, leaving me feeling hollow and wrung out. But as Fox starts to pull away, panic flares in my chest.

"Wait," I blurt out, my fingers tightening around his. "Could you...could you stay? Just for a little while?"

Something flickers in Fox's eyes, surprise, maybe, or uncertainty. For a moment, I think he might refuse. But then his expression softens, and he nods.

"Of course," he murmurs, carefully repositioning himself to avoid not only me, but Bruce. He winces as he settles back against the headboard, and I'm reminded again of just how badly he's hurt.

"Are you sure you're comfortable?" I ask, guilt gnawing at me. "I don't want to make your injuries worse."

Fox's lips quirk up in a crooked smile. "Trust me, firefly, there's nowhere else I'd rather be right now."

The sincerity in his voice makes my breath catch. I lean back against the pillows, trying to slow my racing heart. Fox's presence beside me is both comforting and unsettling, a contradiction I'm too exhausted to unpack right now.

"Try to sleep," Fox murmurs, his voice a low rumble in the quiet room. "I'll be right here."

I nod, letting my eyes drift closed. The events of the past few days swirl in my mind, a chaotic kaleidoscope of fear, violence, and loss. But beneath it all, there's a thread of something else. Something that feels dangerously close to hope.

As I hover on the edge of consciousness, I feel Fox's hand move to stroke my hair, his touch impossibly gentle. The soothing rhythm lulls me deeper towards sleep, and I find myself instinctively curling closer to his warmth.

"I've got you, firefly," he whispers, barely audible. "You're safe now."

Those words follow me into my dreams, a talisman against the nightmares that threaten. For the first time in days, I sleep without terror, anchored by Fox's presence and Bruce curled against my side.