Page 22 of Tainted Tempos

She pulls me inside our suite, and we cuddle on the couch, watching a rom-com I’m fairly certain I’ve seen before. At some point, Mckenna falls asleep and I hold her close, listening to the evenness of her breathing, reveling in the fact that there is hope for us after all.

Once the end credits roll on the screen, I tuck my beauty into bed and relocate to the couch. Tonight felt like a giant leap forward and I hold on to that as I drift to sleep.

Her scream pierces the air, scaring the shit out of me. I jump from the couch and rush to Mckenna’s side.

Blinking rapidly, my eyes adjust to the darkness. I scan the space for a shadowy figure, a threat, something to make sense of the agonized screams pouring from her mouth.

I sweep the space around her bed, searching for a cowering figure. For something.

There’s no one.

“Mckenna!” I holler, gripping her shoulders. Her skin is sweaty and clammy, with strands of hair sticking to her neck and chest.

She thrashes against me, her hands swatting at my face, her nails clawing at my chest. “No! No! Please, no,” she cries, her eyes closed, her head turning from side to side.

“Mckenna! It’s me, Mav,” I try again, shaking her.

Terror seizes my chest, locking down my limbs as my mind whirls to understand what’s happening.

“It’s a bad dream, a nightmare,” I try to explain, for both our benefits. “You’re okay; you’re safe.” My voice cracks as I say it.

Tears track down Mckenna’s cheeks as she slowly opens her eyes. They’re unfocused as if she’s still seeing something else. Something horrifying.

“Mav.” She gasps like she’s been underwater too long and broke the surface. Her chest heaves. Her tank top clings to her skin, soaked through with sweat, as if she just ran a goddamn marathon.

“I’m here; it’s me,” I repeat, pulling her into my arms.

Her body shakes as a constant stream of trembling wracks through her limbs. She’s cold and pale. She curls into herself, looking fragile.

I rock her slowly, rubbing my hand along her arm to warm her up. She’s simultaneously shivering and sweating. It’s as if she has a fever, except when I lift the back of my hand to her forehead, it’s cool.

“You’re okay,” I repeat. “You’re safe.”

She tucks her head under my chin and presses her face into my chest. I rub her back, and we sit silently in the dark for long moments.

Except, the trembling doesn’t stop. A sob cuts the air, and I realize Mckenna is crying. Bawling. Gripping my T-shirt with both hands and clinging to my frame like a lifeline.

“Mckenna?” I pull back slightly to read her face. It’s too dark to make out the emotions in her eyes and I shift our bodies to turn on the bedside lamp.

The light catches her naked expression, and the fear in her gaze haunts me. My receding adrenaline kicks back up. What am I missing? What the hell is going on?

Mckenna looks lost. Pained. Desperate and empty and broken all at once.

“It was real,” she tells me, her eyes glazed, her cheeks wet.

“It was a bad dream,” I try to rationalize.

Fresh tears swell in her eyes, and she shakes her head. “No, it wasn’t. I wanted it to be, but it’s not. It’s not, Mav. It happened. That’s what I need to tell you. It’s what I need you to understand.”

Clasping her hand, I keep her fingers pinned against my chest. “What is? What happened?”

“It was Branson,” she whispers, defeated. “All this time, I knew it, but I didn’tknowit. And it was him. This whole time.”She speaks in fragments, and my mind races to assemble her words into an explanation I understand.

Even though I’m having difficulty following her, her physical reaction to this situation causes my blood to run cold. I shiver from the look in her eyes. From the loss written in her expression.

“What did he do?” My voice is monotone, nearly arctic. But the emotions that rush through me—the anger and anguish and horror that churn low in my gut—are hot and feverish.

I know, but I don’tknow. Not until she says it. As much as I need to hear the words, I pray I’m wrong. I hope I’m fucking wrong about every damn thing.

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