15. Mckenna
FIFTEEN
MCKENNA
“You’re avoiding me,” Branson accuses, sliding into the chair across from mine.
“Even in class.”
I jump, my eyes darting around the library.
My heart rate gallops, my eardrums buzz, and nerves tingle in my fingertips.
It’s fine. I’m fine.
There are people close by.
We’re in a well-lit, bustling portion of the library.
I can see other students; they can hear me.
I let out a slow exhale.
Bran’s eyes narrow.
I clench my hands into fists and tuck them into my lap.
Then, I feign as casual as I’m capable of and arch an eyebrow.
“What do you want?”
A slow grin cuts across his face but his eyes glint.
“I heard you got married.”
I force my hand from my lap and flash him my ring.
“I did.”
His smile slips slightly.
“It’s for real? You’re really with Maverick Tate?”
The fact that he would assume otherwise unnerves me.
“Happily.”
“Huh,” Bran mutters.
A spark of unease crosses his face, and I like witnessing it.
In the next moment, a mask of neutrality is firmly back in place and Bran averts his gaze.
When he does, my survival instincts kick in.
If Bran is uneasy, he’s reckless.
Dangerous.
I shiver from the realization and snap my attention to the textbook before me.
“I need to study.”
Bran’s gaze lingers on the top of my head for three heartbeats.
He makes my skin crawl, and my intestines twist. I keep my eyes trained on the blurring words and focus on my breathing.
Inhale. Exhale.
Don’t fidget, don’t tense.
Finally, he knocks against the table and stands.
“Whatever, Mckenna. Be with your fucking rockstar husband. He’ll cheat on you eventually.”
Huh?
I’m dumbfounded as Branson walks away.
Why does he care that I married Mav?
Why does he have a reaction at all?
I grip the edge of my textbook and try to focus on the case I’m reading.
The words run together, and I blink rapidly.
My head swims, my mind frantically turning over theories.
My mind begins to spiral, thoughts devolving into each other.
Bran suspects I remember that night.
Bran’s threatened by Mav’s social capital if the truth comes out.
Bran’s planning something sinister.
Something even worse than what he already did.
I suck in oxygen and try to calm my erratic heartbeat.
The tornado in my mind picks up speed.
The back of my neck tingles, and I feel like someone is watching me.
I whip around in my chair, but I don’t spot Branson.
Just other students studying in the library.
Like me. Still...
Is he behind the stacks?
At another desk?
Hiding?
A shudder rocks through my limbs.
I hate how uneasy I feel.
Reckless and dangerous.
Didn’t I use those words to describe Bran?
Right now, I feel like I could spiral out of control.
The library walls begin to close in on me, causing my eyes to dart around the space, searching for a threat.
Something is off. But is the something me?
Slamming my book shut, I stuff it into my backpack.
I need to get out of here.
I can’t think. I can’t study.
Fuck, I can’t overrule the terror pulsing in my veins, dancing to the beat of my heart.
My phone buzzes with an incoming text, and I freeze.
Do I look at the message?
What if it’s Bran?
Jesus, what if it’s Mav?
Or Allegra? Or Emily?
Not everything is about Branson Burton!
But isn’t it?
Right now, it sure as hell feels that way.
Every move I make, I’m sure he’s clocking.
Watching and waiting.
Plotting and scheming.
For what? I want to scream.
What the fuck do you want from me?
Tentatively, I pick up my phone and swipe up to read the message.
Mav
Are you hungry?
I snort, laughter spitting from my nostrils.
Relief rocks through me and I pull in a breath.
My heart rate begins to slow.
My mind starts to clear.
Get a grip, Kenny. You’re fine.
You’re in the library.
Allegra
Hey! Just checking in on you.
How’s therapy?
I let out another exhale, regulate my breathing.
See? It’s just your friend—or husband—checking on you.
Making sure you’re safe.
I shoulder my backpack and move toward the exit.
Before stepping into the darkness, I clutch my keys, keeping one locked between my fingers.
I have a whistle on my key ring, too.
And a tiny canister of pepper spray.
You got this. You’re fine.
I step forward, and the automatic doors open.
I walk down the path toward the parking lot.
My eyes scan the area for potential threats.
My ears are primed to pick up the first sound of danger.
My heart kicks behind my breastplate, and nerves coat my stomach’s lining.
A pit grows from my abdomen up into my chest.
Someone is out here.
Someone is following me.
My skin crawls, and my shoulder blades pinch together.
Footsteps grow closer behind me.
I keep my pace even and measured, my eyes flicking to my car in the lot.
As I get closer, the sound of the footsteps grows nearer.
Icy tentacles wrap around my wrists and ankles, making me feel shackled, and it has nothing to do with the freezing temperatures of the Boston evening.
I exhale, watching the white smoke that billows from my mouth.
I slow down slightly, but the gait behind me continues to approach.
Black dots dance on the periphery of my vision.
My chest is drawn tight, so tight, I struggle to suck in a breath.
My toes turn numb in my boots.
The sound of rushing water clogs my ears.
Bile burns the back of my throat.
I brace for impact.
Footsteps, shadows, overhead lights.
Spinning on my heel, I jut my hand forward, the tip of my car key striking at a man.
In the next breath, I’m pressing the canister of pepper spray.
My arm flies wildly, the mist of the spray puffing in the night air.
“Argh!” He jumps back.
“Motherfucker.” He swats the canister from my hand.
My entire key ring goes flying, my neck arcing to follow its trajectory.
It clatters to the pavement, and I snap my face back to the man, my terror skyrocketing.
“Stay away from me!” I holler.
His expression is bewildered as he blinks.
My eyes roam over him, clocking details of his physical appearance.
Dark hair tucked under a gray beanie.
Blue eyes, the color of the Caribbean.
A hunter-green coat.
There’s a space between his two front teeth and a cleft in his chin.
As I catalog his facial attributes, I notice his lips are moving.
His hands are reaching for me.
I should run. I’m supposed to be running.
But my feet don’t move.
My body doesn’t shift.
Instead, my legs feel like lead.
I’m frozen, unable to do anything but stare at the man in front of me.
The rushing water in my ears roars, clogging out the sounds of the night.
Panic washes over the guy’s face as he looms closer.
My limbs grow heavier.
My feet are two cement blocks stuck to the pavement.
At the end of a tunnel, I spot my car.
It’s so close. So fucking far away.
I don’t have my keys.
My throat is dry, and my tongue is swollen.
My eyes feel scratchy and too big for my head.
Am I talking? Screaming?
Whimpering?
My knees give out, and the ground surges upward.
A hand closes around my upper arm.
Is it Bran? Is it the guy?
Is it—nothing.
When I come to, bright light assaults my eyes.
I blink rapidly, trying to dislodge the feeling of sand from my eyeballs.
The incessant sound of a nearby beep increases.
I suck in oxygen, surprised by how heavy my chest feels.
I open my eyes, and a face looms over me.
Fuck! It’s the guy.
Is he stalking me?
Is he going to kill me?
“You gotta calm down,” he says, his voice low.
“They’re gonna kick me out if you don’t calm down.”
The beeping sound quickens, and he swears.
“Are you going to hurt me?” I manage to ask.
Shock blooms in the stranger’s eyes.
“Hurt you? No, I’m trying to protect you.”
Even though I don’t know him or trust him, my heart rate slows slightly.
Still, it doesn’t make sense.
“Did Bran send you?”
His eyebrows dip, pulling together over his crooked nose.
“No.” He shakes his head.
“I’m trying to keep you safe. I’m sorry I scared you. You passed out and hit your head hard. You got stitches in the back. I brought you here to the hospital.”
The beeping intensifies again.
“You gotta calm down,” he repeats.
“Who sent you?” I demand.
“Who is making you watch over me?”
For a heartbeat, I wonder if it’s my dad.
It makes no sense since Dad knows nothing about my current predicament.
Jeannie sent a vase as a wedding gift and Dad left me a voicemail to arrange another dinner, but they don’t know about Bran.
But if it’s not my dad, then who?
Confusion twists the man’s expression.
He holds up his palms in a surrender position.
I hold my breath.
“Maverick Tate.”
Confusion rolls through my stomach.
I frown, replaying his response.
Maverick Tate.
“What?” There’s no way I heard him correctly.
He licks his lips nervously.
“Maverick Tate. Mav.”
“My husband?”
He nods.
I shake my head. It doesn’t make sense.
Mav, my husband, sent the man who has been watching over me while I feared for my fucking life?
And he never thought to tell me?
My confusion spikes into anger.
Into…betrayal.
How could he not tell me?
Hell, how could he not ask me if I wanted a security guard?
If that’s something I’d be comfortable with.
Mav, my husband, who agreed that we need honest communication to make our marriage work, hired a fucking bodyguard and didn’t share it with me.
“I can’t believe him,” I spit, recalling the past few days that I felt on edge, doubting my instincts, questioning my goddamn sanity.
All along, it was Mav!
The man’s eyes widen.
Then, everything goes black again.
This time, I relish it.