Page 50 of Pastel Kisses

He closes his eyes, his chest rising and falling in slow, measured breaths. When he opens them again, there’s devastation in his stare. “I’m sorry,” he whispers.

My brothers fall silent.

Dan takes a deep, shuddering breath. “Kam’s right, Jax. It’s not that Iwantto believe she’s not coming back. God knows, I don’t. But… I have to prepare myself for the possibility. Because if I don’t—if I keep holding on and it turns out I was wrong—I don’t know if I’ll survive it.”

A tear slips free, trailing down his weathered face.

I can’t breathe.

Can’t fuckingbreathe.

Because for the first time since Avery disappeared, I hear the thing I’ve fought so fucking hard to avoid—the doubt.

It’s worming its way into my chest, wrapping around my lungs like a vice, squeezing the hope out of me piece by piece.

No.

No, Iwon’tlet it.

I won’t let him give up. I won’t let Kamden feed the fear. I won’t letanyonedoubt that Avery is coming home.

Because she is.

Shehasto.

With no hesitation, I step forward and pull Dan into the tightest hug I’ve ever given in my life. My arms lock around his broad back, my fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt like I can physically hold him together.

My brothers close in, each of us forming a solid, unbreakable wall of strength.

Dan’s body shakes against mine, the weight of his grief nearly buckling his knees. But I hold him up. Wealldo.

And as I squeeze my eyes shut, I send out a silent, desperate plea into the universe.

Hold on, Sunshine. Keep fighting.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Avery

Time doesn’t exist down here like it does topside, but by the size of my belly, I’m inclined to believe Sarah when she says I’m about eight months pregnant.

The baby moves often, letting me know my bean is happy and healthy. I talk to the baby often, singing, telling stories about how happy grandpa will be when they meet, and about their daddies. I honestly have no idea who’s baby it is but I think I’m happy about that too. Every fiber of my being wishes that the guys were here with me, sharing our baby’s milestones like normal expecting parents, instead of shackled in a basement.

Sarah continues to pretend we’re besties by over sharing her supposed interactions with the guys. I’ve chosen to block out all the psychobabble bullshit she spits about rekindling their love for the baby. The little devil on my shoulder begs for the bug to plant and fester, but true or not, staying mentally sharp is the key to survival. If playing her game leads to freedom, then I’m well on my way to becoming a dungeon master.

She believes I’m docile, that protecting the baby is my only focus, and she’s right. The baby is my primary focus, but not my only motivation. I’ll admit, she’s good. An opportunity still hasn’t presented itself the entire time I’ve been here. The shackle that’s now scaring my ankle has not once been unlocked while conscious. I’m assuming I have until the baby’s born before she gets rid of me, but that’s a guess. I’m an incubator, growingherbaby instead.

But something’s different today. A shift in the air signals the tides are changing, insisting that I prepare. For what? I’m not sure, but the constant commotion upstairs sets me on edge.

After what feels like hours, Sarah descends the stairs and enters while balancing a full tray of food. You’d think that the beaming smile she greets me with is because of the very pregnant belly she’s wearing—a replica of mine—but it’s vindictive. Smug. Another tool in her arsenal tailored to fucking with my day.

“Good morning, baby.” She chimes, staring at my belly, before meeting my eyes.

I don’t respond. There’s no point. Her cheese hasn’t just slid off the cracker—it’s fallen, molded, and grown its own ecosystem. She hates when I interrupt her so-calledbonding timewithmybaby. Loves to remind me that the baby needs to hearhervoice—becauseshe’sthe mommy.

Barf.

Over. My. Dead. Body.

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