Page 52 of Puck Your Bunny

"Hey, Bren. Lunchtime." I scoop a small amount of the thick potato soup onto the end of the spoon.

I bring it to his lips. He opens his mouth, taking the food. I watch his throat muscles work, giving him time to swallow and breathe before offering the next bite. My hands shake. I grip the handle of the spoon tighter to hide the tremor.

My mind races back to the article on that screen. They called me a burnt-out widow. They called him a burden. They twisted our tragedy into a cheap headline to sell ads. The writer reduced four years of grief, survival, and love into a punchline about the Reapers' star players playing home nurse.

I wipe a stray drop of soup from his chin with a napkin. Brendan watches the television while his name trends across the internet. He deserves better than this invasion of his privacy. I adjust the tilt of his chair, ensuring his spine stays aligned to protect his airway while he eats.

The feeding routine takes a full thirty minutes. I sit there, offering bite after bite, burying my panic deep down to keep his environment peaceful. He finishes the bowl. I offer him a few sips of thickened water from his specialized cup, tracking his swallowing reflex.

I take the empty dishes back to the kitchen, dropping them into the sink. The phone still buzzes under the cabinets every few seconds. I turn my back on it.

The quiet of the house shifts. It feels like a glass box waiting to shatter.

A few hours drag by in a haze of pacing and nervous energy. I walk laps around the kitchen island. I check the deadbolt on the back door. I adjust the throw pillows on the sofa. The afternoon sun dips, casting long shadows across the hardwood floor. The wait eats at my nerves. The storm is coming.

Tires screech out on the street, tearing through the quiet neighborhood.

I freeze in the center of the living room. Car doors slam one after another. Three, maybe four vehicles pull up onto the curb in front of the house. The crunch of tires rolling over the gravel shoulder echoes through the walls.

I step over to the front window. Peeking through the slit in the sheer curtains, my stomach drops.

A white news van sits parked halfway on my grass. Two black SUVs idle right behind it. A crowd of people spills out onto the street, lugging bulky cameras, boom mics, and lighting rigs. At least fifteen of them move as a group toward my front yard.

"Oh, shit." The words slip out in a breathless rush as I watch a guy with a massive DSLR camera stomp through the front garden bed.

Another reporter shoves past him, tracking dirt and gravel over the new concrete driveway.

They trash the property to get a shot.

A woman holding a microphone stomps up the front steps. Her heels click against the concrete. The rest of the swarm follows her, crowding onto the front porch until the space is packed. I catch movement at the side of the house. A few photographers jog toward the backyard, their cameras swinging as they head for the new ramp and the patio.

Cali lets out a terrified hiss. The cat darts out from her spot near the window, her fur puffed up and her ears pinned flat to her skull. She scrambles across the hardwood floor, her claws slipping on the varnish before she dives under the sofa.

A fist pounds against the front door. The wood shakes in the frame.

"Vayda! Vayda Moore! Open the door!" A man's voice booms from the porch.

The pounding continues. Camera flashes strobe through the sheer curtains, lighting up the dim living room with bursts of white light.

"Is it true the Reapers are living here?" A woman's voice pierces through the glass.

"Are you taking advantage of their money to pay for your Alpha’s medical bills?" The demands continue as they shove their camera lenses against the front windows, trying to get a look inside.

"How does it feel to replace Hale Langdon with three guys ten years younger than you?" Another voice cuts over the commotion.

"Does Brendan know his mate is a puck bunny?" The cruelty of the shouted questions knocks the wind out of me.

They hurl this garbage right through the glass while Brendan sits just feet away.

Another round of pounding hits the front door.

"Are you worried management is going to force them to drop you?" The demands continue through the door.

"They need to be focused on the playoffs, Vayda! Are you going to ruin their careers?" The flashes keep strobing.

The front porch is packed shoulder-to-shoulder with strangers demanding answers, demanding a piece of my private tragedy to sell for clicks. They trample over the safe space I spent four years building.

Brendan lets out a distressed whine from his wheelchair. The loud banging and the flashing lights catch his attention. He slaps his hands against the armrests, his eyes wide with confusion and fear as the shouts echo through the front hallway.