Page 131 of Myla: The Hawthornes

I looked over into the darkness by the RV. “But I dropped it.”

“He doesn’t care about the cake, My,” Otto said, rubbing my knee. “What happened after you got the cake?”

The roar of Harleys would have drowned out any answer I’d given. Bike after bike came down the road, going way too fast. The first bike stopped on a skid, spraying gravel.

“Myla!” Cian bellowed.

“I got her,” Otto yelled back, rising.

He got to me in an instant.

“Where are you hurt?” he asked, falling to his knees in front of me. His hands pressed against my chest and stomach, searching.

“It’s not my blood,” I croaked. “It’s not mine.”

“Whose is it?”

I stared at him. “I don’t know.”

“He’s over there,” Otto pointed into the darkness.

“I don’t give a fuck,” my dad spat back. “Myla? You okay, baby girl?”

“I’m okay.” I wanted to stand up and show him that I was—I just didn’t have it in me.

“Baby,” Cian said gently, his hands still searching. He ran them down my arms, my hands, my hips and back, my thighs and shins. “What happened?”

“I came for the cake,” I replied distractedly, my eyes on the men who were moving as a group toward the carport.

They were going to see. They were going to see what I’d done. Oh, god. The moon wasn’t bright, but there were some forms in the darkness, some voices that I would know anywhere. My gramps. Dragon. Uncle Will. Leo. Cam. Brody and Bas. Gray.

My brothers came toward us. Titus, Micky, and Rumi crowded around me.

I struggled to inhale. My throat was so tight that I started to panic.

“What?” Cian asked desperately. “Baby, what?”

I scratched at my throat.

“She can’t breathe,” Cian yelled, panicked. “She can’t fuckin’ breathe.”

Then Uncle Mack was there, inches from my face.

“Slow, Myla,” he ordered, pulling my hands from my neck. “With me.”

I shook my head.

“Right now, Myla,” he said firmly, gripping my chin. “With me.”

I wheezed in a breath, copying him.

“That’s it. Now out. Slow, honey.”

“It’s not workin’,” my dad said.

“It is,” Uncle Mack replied. “In again, Myla. Slow.”

It was agony. I wanted to gasp so badly, but I trusted Uncle Mack. More than that, I trusted that my dad would tear him to pieces if he was wrong—so I inhaled slowly.

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