Page 7 of Pastel Kisses

Dan.

Her dad.

Jaxton exhales sharply and drags a hand down his face again. “How the hell am I supposed to explain this?” His voice wavers, barely held together. “Hey, Dan. Your daughter’s missing. It might be a deranged fan who has her. Or maybe someone from our past. Or maybe some random sick fuck. But we don’t know—because we know nothing.”

The air in the room is thick, suffocating.

Lennox clenches his fists, his knuckles turning white. “We have to find her. Fast.”

“No shit,” Jaxton snaps, before blowing out a sharp breath and shaking his head. “Fuck. I know.” His voice lowers, calmer now, but no less dangerous. “We will. We’re not waiting around for the cops to do a damn thing. We’re going to find her ourselves.”

Liam steps back inside, his expression unreadable. “Cops are on their way,” he mutters, though there’s zero faith in his tone. “But we all know how that goes.”

Useless.

They’d tell us to sit tight, let them investigate, take statements. But we don’t have time for red tape.

Avery is out there.

Alone.

Scared.

And whoever took her…

They won’t fucking live to regret it.

Jaxton straightens, his entire demeanor shifting into something colder, harder—focused. “We’ll ensure the police check the security footage around the area. Then we go from there.”

I glance toward the door, my hands balling into fists at my sides. The thought of her being out there, at the mercy of some deranged lunatic, makes me sick. My nails bite into my palms, but the pain barely registers.

Because the only thing louder than my fear right now—Is my rage.

And I swear to God, whoever took her?

They won’t fucking survive it.

CHAPTER THREE

Avery

Acrushing weight presses down on my chest, and a sharp throb pulses at the base of my skull as consciousness claws its way back to me. My lashes flutter against the dim light, my vision swimming in and out of focus as I try to make sense of where the hell I am. The pounding in my head rivals the dull ache spreading through my limbs, making every small movement feel like I’m wading through wet cement.

A low moan vibrates in my throat as I bring trembling hands to my temples, rubbing in slow, circular motions to fight off the dizziness. My mouth is dry, my tongue heavy, as if I’ve been drugged—because, let’s be honest, I probably have.

The second my sight sharpens enough to make sense of my surroundings, dread slams into me like a freight train.

I’m in deep shit.

The mattress beneath me is lumpy, the springs digging uncomfortably into my back. Dust swirls lazily through the stale air, illuminated by the single exposed lightbulb dangling from the ceiling. The walls are bare, tinged yellow with years of water damage streaking like rust down their surface. There’s no window. No decorations. Just a battered desk and chair shoved against the far wall, and a filthy toilet in the corner.

But the most damning thing of all—the thick, discolored chain shackled to my ankle.

Horror rips through me like an electric current as I sit up too fast, the room spinning violently in protest. My stomach lurches, bile creeping up my throat, but I push past it, yanking at the heavy metal band locked around my leg. The clinking sound of the chain against the floor sends a chill skittering down my spine.

I’m trapped.

I twist my foot, trying to slip it through the metal ring, but it’s no use. The damn thing is too tight to slide over my heel. The length of the chain allows me about five feet of movement—just enough to reach the desk and toilet, but nowhere near the door.

---