Mind Games

“He found a way in, Bunk. He found a way in, and found a way to scare me, to hurt me. But I’m not helpless, and I won’t be. Just need to remind myself I’m not and won’t be.”

Maybe her first instinct was to go to her grandmother for hugs and reassurance. But she wasn’t a child any longer either.

She’d become a successful, professional woman, she thought as she cleaned, dried, stored her eggs. She’d used her gift four times to save a life since Detectives Howard and Musk had come to her at college.

She’d made a difference to others, and she could handle herself. Physically, mentally, emotionally.

Work could wait a little longer, she decided. Better to clear her mind of those lingering images before she focused it on fleshing out the new concept for a game.

She went upstairs and changed into a sports bra, workout capris, then layered a simple white tank over it.

In her bare feet, she went into her studio and studied the swords displayed on her wall rack. After a brief internal debate, she chose a katana.

Though she had a large mirror on the wall she used for working out movements in a battle—armed or unarmed—she wanted more room. And she wanted the sun and air, the feel of the grass under her feet.

Bunk followed her back out, but because she’d belted on the sword, he sat on the porch.

She faced the woods, let herself imagine Riggs stepping out because it set her mood.

No sobbing, no shaking, but action. Defense.

“Come on then,” she murmured.

Closing her hand over the long grip, she drew the curved sword and began.

* * *

In the past three years and counting, Ty had grown accustomed to early mornings. His kid, he’d learned, didn’t believe in sleeping in.

Bray served as his often too-reliable alarm clock, with a happy bounce on his dad’s sleeping body and a happily insistent: Time to wake up!

He had managed, through trial and error, to convince Bray that the numbers on the clock had to start with a six or seven before the bounce and announcement.

Occasionally, if Ty stirred awake enough to open his eyes prior to that six o’clock mark, he’d find Bray sitting on the bed beside him, waiting.

The fact that touched his heart made it clear to him that where Braydon Seth Brennan was concerned, he was a goner.

On the first morning in Kentucky, Bray woke him at six-sixteen.

Groggy, half wishing for the familiarity of his bedroom up north, Ty tried to cuddle the kid in.

“How about ten more minutes?”

“Six–one–six, Daddy! We’re hungry!”

The “we” included Woof, the purple stuffed dog Bray had been clutching when Ty learned he had an eighteen-month-old son.

If Bray wanted breakfast, so did Woof.

“Okay, okay, I’m up.”

He rolled out of bed in his boxers. At home, he’d have left it at that for the breakfast cycle, but who the hell knew who might knock on the damn door around here at any time of the day or night?

And Christ, he needed coffee.

After Ty dragged on jeans, Bray hopped right on his back for the ride downstairs.

“Gotta put gas in the engine first.”