Page 33 of Resilient Rhythms
And it all comes crashing down when I wake in the morning to a bouquet of dead flowers and a note on my front porch.
I’m back from the dead, Kenny. And I’ll be seeing you soon.
The dead flowers sit on the butcher block island as I walk around them. Maybe I shouldn’t have carried them inside? What if they’re dangerous?
I bite off half my cuticle. Shit. I pop my finger into my mouth and taste tangy blood.
Well, I couldn’t just leave them on the front porch, could I?
They’re obviously from Bran. They have to be from Bran.
I searched up and down the quiet street in a panic, my eyes darting over the trees, focusing on my neighbors’ windows, butthere was no sign of anyone, save for a mother pushing a baby stroller, her toddler blowing bubbles beside her.
Nerves coat my skin, running over my limbs in waves of heat and ice. I glance at the door again. Locked. I already called Mav and I know he’s on his way over.
Raking my fingers through my hair, I move to the kitchen sink, my eyes scanning the yard for—what?
Bran isn’t going to randomly pop up.
But what if he does? What if he’s watching me right now?
I swing back to the flowers, squinting at them as if a small camera with a glowing red light will greet me. It doesn’t. There’s nothing but a bunch of dead stems and falling petals.
Ugh. My stomach lurches. I feel sick. Nauseous. Nervous.
Out of my body. I hate that he has this effect on me. I hate that he can instill me with undiluted fear through a stupid note and a bunch of dead flowers.
“Mckenna!” Knocking sounds on the front door and I jump.
Spinning toward the front entrance, I stare at the door, but my feet don’t move. I can’t move.
My heart beats so loudly, it’s like a rock concert in my mind.
Is it him? Is he here?
I shake my head. I know it’s Mav. It’s Maverick, myhusband.
And yet, I can’t bring myself to open the door.
“It’s me, beauty. Open up.” He knocks again.
I suck in air. Hold it in my chest. Slowly release it. I breathe in the scent of coffee beans from this morning. I focus on the blue carpet in the living room. I run my fingers over the kitchen countertop.
And slowly, so-painstakingly-slowly, my breathing returns to normal.
“Mckenna!”
I’m okay. It’s Maverick. I can let him inside. I can walk to the door.
This time, I do. And when I pull it open and see Mav on the front porch, I nearly weep with relief.
His eyes blaze, pure fury. His jaw is set hard enough to crack steel. His mouth twisted in determination.
But when I fall forward into his arms, and the emotions I tried so hard to lock down bubble out of me, his arms are steady. His hold is gentle. He’s…home.
Mav whisks me into his arms and steps inside the brownstone, careful to lock the door behind him. Pulling me closer, he kisses the crown of my head. “I’m here. You’re okay.”
“I’m scared, Mav,” I admit the truth on broken words.
