CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND THIRTY FIVE

ORLA

I was sick and tired of waiting for things to happen.

The day after my last discussion with Maverick, I'd been unable to rest my jittery nerves. Every second, minute or hour physically disturbed me. I wanted my child. I needed her back in my arms.

The fact that I had no idea what they could have been doing to her made me panic even more. What if they were abusing her? Or casting marks on her smooth skin just to cause her pain? What if they were starving her, and watching as life slowly seeped out of her little body?

I had to hold on to the hope that she still lived. I couldn't think about anything else.

Maverick had called for a compulsory meeting, and as much as I wanted to keep avoiding him, I couldn't turn away when my child came into the picture.

The noon was blazing hot, so I already dressed in a black tank top and some denim shorts, baring the skin of my arms and legs. In this, the mark Maverick had branded me with was on full display—an oddly symmetrical line of five dots