Bradford's Orders Book Two The Legacy Series

Chapter 24

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Chapter 24

Zane

The room smelled like stale cigarettes and bleach, a cheap economy suite that hadn't seen a real cleaning in years. The floral bedspread was worn thin in places, little tufts of stuffing poking through the fabric. A rickety nightstand sat between the two double beds, its laminate peeling up at the corners. The carpet was the color of old moss, sticky under his boots. A yellowed lampshade cast a weak, jaundiced glow over the chipped dresser and the battered TV perched on top of it.

It was a dump. But it had suited me, anonymous, forgettable. The kind of place no one asked questions.

Until tonight.

Rage twisted in my gut, burning hotter with every replay of Milo's face in my mind. That relaxed, easy look. Like he belonged in their world. Like he'd already won.

My hands clenched into fists.
The first thing to go was the lamp. I ripped it from the wall socket and hurled it across the room. It hit the dresser and shattered, the bulb exploding in a flash of sparks. The stink of burnt filament curled into the air. I didn't stop. I couldn't.

I kicked the side of the mattress, sending the bedframe groaning across the floor. The TV went next, I swept it off the dresser in one violent motion, the screen shattering when it hit the carpet with a muffled crash. Pieces of black plastic scattered around his boots.

I tore the bedspread free, flinging it against the opposite wall. The flimsy curtain rod rattled as I ripped the drapes back, glaring down at the empty parking lot. My chest heaved. The walls felt too close, pressing in on me, choking me with the reek of dust and rage.

I turned, surveying the ruin.
The lamp lay in shards. The dresser had a fresh gouge across the front where the television had struck it. The cracked screen still flickered weakly, blue light pulsing against the wreckage. The mattress hung halfway off the frame, the sheets tangled around the legs of the overturned chair I'd kicked out of my path.

It looked like a crime scene.

Good.

My breathing slowed. I pressed both palms flat to the cold glass of the window.

They thought they were better than me. That their big house and their money and their clean, shining lives made them untouchable. But I'd been slipping in and out of their perfect world for over a year. Watching. Waiting. Making them scared.

I remembered the night I'd called the hotline, how easy it had been to plant just enough poison to have that little girl ripped from Holly's arms. I knew what it felt like to be thrown away, to be unwanted, to be nothing.

No kid of mine was going to look down on me. No one was.
I drew in a ragged breath, letting the fury settle into something colder. Sharper.
They thought it was over.
They thought they'd won.

But I was still here.

And I wasn't finished yet.

My gaze drifted over the wreckage one last time before sliding back to the window. The night outside was still and black, broken only by the flickering streetlamp at the edge of the lot.

Movement caught my eye.

Across the lot, she appeared. Georgia, her hair loose and catching in the breeze, the pale line of her throat visible as she turned her head to glance around, nervous, fragile in a way that twisted something hot and ugly in my chest. She hugged her purse to her side like a shield and opened the door of the white SUV.

And there he was. Milo.

Standing beside her, so damn calm, the kind of calm that came from a life where you never had to worry about anything. He didn't touch her, didn't have to. The way he looked at her was enough, steady, quiet, that unshakable attention that made it clear he'd never let anything touch her. Like she was precious. Like she belonged to him.