Chapter 16

The next morning, Steve steps inside the farmhouse, shakes the rain off his jacket and enters the kitchen. He sighs as he takes in the bottle of Jim Beam, the full ashtray.

At the table sits Dylan, his face in his hands, a cigarette burning out between his fingers.

Steve raises an eyebrow at David, who sits across from Dylan.

"How is he?"

David offers a one-shoulder shrug. "He drank half a bottle of whiskey last night, so I'd say he's feeling like shit right about now."

When Steve stares down at Dylan, David says, "Smashed his guitar the minute we got home. Cut his hand punching the wall. Then passed out on the couch."

"Shit." Steve winces as he spies the damage to Dylan's poor old guitar. It rests in the corner of the kitchen, battered to hell. The neck, snapped apart from the body, hangs loose. Splintered into a spike sharp enough to stake a vampire.

"Why did you do that you idiot?"

Dylan lifts his head, looking like he's in his own circle of hell. His eyes red, glassy and bloodshot. His clothes rumpled, his tie loosed. The palm of his hand stained with dried blood.

"Did you find her? You find Bren?" His voice is hoarse with desperation and worry. They're all worried.

Brenda took off last night and Dylan lost her in the crowd. Even after driving around for hours and blowing up her cell phone, they couldn't find her. And now? Now Brenda's out there alone, unprotected.

There's no telling the awful thoughts going through Dylan's mind. He already looks half-crazed as it is. Hell, Steve's nearly there himself. The way Brenda looked at him last night. Betrayed. Hurt. He felt like fucking Judas.

Steve pulls up a chair and sits. "I'm looking. Val's using her connections around the city, Brandon and Erica are looking. We'll find her." Dylan nods numbly and stamps out his cigarette. He reaches, fumbling, for the empty bottle of booze.

Steve scowls. "You want some more whiskey with that whiskey?"

"Couldn't hurt," Dylan grunts.

David removes the bottle from reach. "This doesn't suit you anymore."

"David is right. Drinking yourself stupid isn't gonna fix anything."

"This is my fucking fault." Dylan dips his head and cups the back of his neck. "I should have been honest in the first place. I should have told her. I lost her." His eyes close. "For good this time."

"You haven't lost her," Steve says, though he doubts his words will even get through Dylan's boozed soaked brain. "She'll come around, man."

"We just have to find her first." David meets Steve's eyes. The look that passes between them—unbridled anger.

Just when Steve thought Marshall couldn't stoop any lower, he did. It was slimy as fuck releasing that photo, trying to sabotage their careers, his relationship with his wife. Not to mention sending Brenda into a spiral, blindsiding her into believing the past was the present. She's been through enough hurt, and all Marshall did was confuse her already-confused mind even further.

One thing's for certain, Marshall isn't getting away with it. Brandon's already got plans to destroy the son of a bitch. Early this morning, he put a call in to Jasper. Those archived texts are his.

Brandon is coming for Marshall and when he's done with him, he's gonna learn you don't touch his family. Not Dylan, and sure as hell not Brenda.

Steve jumps when his cell phone pings. He breathes a sigh of relief as he reads the text from Brandon.

"Found Bren," he says, and Dylan's head snaps up.

"She's safe?" Steve flattens his lips to smother a smile. The only thing Dylan cares about. Dylan could be on fire and all he'd worry about was if Brenda was getting smoke inhalation. "She's safe." Steve glances back at the text. "She's at the Hermitage."

Some of the cloudiness leaves Dylan's eyes. No doubt the memories of the hotel have hit him hard. Then, like the words have triggered something in him, Dylan lets out a determined breath and straightens up.

"I'm going to get her. I'm not letting her go again." Steve leans back and exhales. David floats him a relieved look. With David's help, Dylan staggers to his feet.

"You need coffee dude…and a shower." David crinkles his nose, "You smell like a whiskey barrel."

As David helps Dylan, it leaves Steve to quietly slip out the front door.

All Brenda wants are strong drinks to paralyze her mind, numb her heart, and muffle the sound of her throbbing head. She's cried enough, drunk enough, slept enough to chase Dylan out of her mind.

But now morning's arrived, and so has Erica and Brandon. Brenda has no idea how her brother and sister-in-law tracked her down, but track her down they did.

And they came bearing muffins and coffee and are being a huge pain in the ass.

She winces as Brandon rips open the blinds.

"Bran," Brenda says, her voice smothered. "Can we just…stay in the dark?"

She burrows deeper into the blankets.

"No," comes her brother's pert reply.

Brenda groans. The bed shifts as Brandon plops beside her, resting a hand on Brenda's knee. "You need to eat something, Bren."

Brenda struggles to sit up. Her hair, a bed headed mess, halos around her. She's still in her dress from last night, making her feel like a very slinky Cinderella, only without the glass slipper. Only without her happy ending.

At the thought, Brenda's eyes well again.

"Oh, Brenda," Erica whispers as she hands her a cup of coffee and a blueberry muffin. She scoots close, curling into the covers next to her.

Brenda rests her head on her sister's shoulder, not even bothering to stop the tears flowing fresh from her eyes. She feels so confused and lost. All she can do is think of Dylan and the argument from last night. Of him denying the photo. Of the love they shared.

The truth.

That's all she wants.

Wiping her eyes, Brenda pulls back to look at Erica. "I don't know what to believe. Everything is so fuzzy." She takes a breath, "Did I believe he cheated?"

"At first, yes. But, Bren, you were in the hospital," Erica says. "You had just seen this awful photo with no explanation. You had lost the baby. You were heartbroken. Hormonal."

"What about you? You thought they did."

Guilt crosses Brandon's face. "You're my sister. I was on your side. Plus Kelly was my fiancé. I was in the same position as you."

Brenda takes a shaky breath. "And now?"

Brandon looks serious. "I was wrong. Dylan didn't cheat on you, Brenda. Not before the plane crash, not now."

Brenda closes her eyes. Though Brandon's words are reassuring, she still doesn't know the whole story or about the teenage photos of Dylan and Kelly, the flashback in the park.

"Brenda." Erica's soft voice makes her look up. "You went to the hotel where you and Dylan spent many weekends, including your first visit to Nashville which made you both decide to move here."

She gestures at the hotel room. "I know you don't remember and your confused but…it means something."

Brenda takes a deep breath. Tucking a lock of hair behind Brenda's ear, "The way he loves you, Bren…shit, the way he looks at you…" Erica's lips curve up and her eyes go dreamy. "We all want that."

For a moment, Brenda sits silently, her eyes catching Brandon reaching for Erica's hand. She looks between them.

"Is there something going on between you two?" Brenda says questioning.

Erica tears her hand away, "What? No? What?" She stutters.

Brenda smiles looking to her brother. He's hiding a smirk but rolls his eyes. "Let's focus on you."

"Uh huh." Brenda wipes her tears when there's a knock at the door. They're fucking, she feels it. That energy, if they aren't they want to.

Erica sighs but gets up to answer the door. Right now is not the time to get into whatever is happening with her and Brandon. Another time, another place, preferably when Brenda and Dylan are in better places. She knows her brother is going to shit.

The person behind the door has her frowning. Steve.

"What are you doing here?" Erica asks, propping a hand on her hip. Ignoring Erica, Steve peers past her.

Brenda presses her lips together, resolved not to cry when she sees his sympathy-filled face. "Bren, I know you're confused. You need answers and I brought them. She's staying here, I ran into her downstairs."

Steve steps into the room, followed by Kelly.

Erica hisses, "Steve, I am gonna kill you."

He holds up a hand. "Let's hear her out."

"Absolutely not," Erica snaps.

Brenda expects to bristle when she sees Kelly. Instead, a kind of calm overtakes her. A tug in her gut that tells her she's close to the truth. To the past.

"Hey, Brenda," Kelly says softly. She looks nervous but holds her gaze. Swinging her shaky legs over the edge of the bed, Brenda stands straight and evaluates Kelly with a decisive eye.

She swallows hard. "We've talked about this before."

Kelly nods. "We have."

When Brenda sits, so does Kelly.

Before Erica can go for the jugular, Brandon gets up to leave them and herds her to the couch, where they take a seat.

Erica's face wary and scowling.

Brenda listens as Kelly relays a story that sounds more like it comes from the front page of a tabloid than real life. The incriminating photo was a setup. Kelly a blackmailed accomplice. A mess Marshall could fix, thereby indebting Dylan to his agent and ensuring Brenda and Dylan stayed on as his clients. All the pieces of the puzzle finally snap into place.

As she speaks, Kelly wears the embarrassed flush of a woman who knows she's done wrong. Brenda eyes Brandon, she feels his emotions, he's angry she went along with the plan to protect her sister when she could have came to him. That Brenda was important enough to come clean to but not him.

While she doesn't understand, she appreciates the balls it's taken for her to do this. Twice. Once on the phone and in person last year and now in person. The past is a fickle road: one Brenda's walked before, she feels this insecurity with Kelly is not new.

"If you want to blame someone, you should blame me," Kelly finishes. "And Marshall. But don't blame Dylan. He loves you, Brenda. He really does, he always has."

Brenda looks back at her. Brenda reaches for her phone, she clicks on the teenage picture of Kelly and Dylan. She shows her. "And this?"

Kelly sighs, "Ancient history. Look Brenda, I'm not saying Dylan is perfect, a long time ago, him and I made a mistake. We were teenagers. You had him first. First love all that. I was a distraction for old wounds, from his true feelings. Always second choice. Almost nine years ago, Dylan married you. You both stood up in front of all of us declared your love for one another and never looked back. No matter who you both tried to move on from, you didn't have your hearts to give. You had both given them to each other at sixteen years old."

Brenda's head tilts. Her eyes find Brandon's. He gives her a sad smile and nods.

"Thank you for coming."

Kelly stands, her purse in her hands. Steve gives her a goodbye nod, and she disappears out the door.

"I don't know…" Brenda says softly. She can feel Erica, Brandon and Steve's eyes on her, wondering, worrying about where her mind and heart are.

Steve eyes Brenda intently. "Dylan should've told you about Kelly. But he was more worried about keeping you safe. We all were." He sighs. "He made a mistake, Bren. He was trying to protect you, not lose you. You, Kelly and Dylan have a complicated past, the doctor said to keep things light with you. That conversation is not light, it will never be light."

"Bren…" Brandon breaths, "High school shit isn't important. The last ten years are important, you and your husband are important. You got over this a long time ago."

Brenda turns her face to the window. The early-morning clouds have lifted to light.

Light.

That's all Brenda's ever wanted. The light and the truth. And now that she knows the truth about Dylan . . . it's not darkness. It's love.

She fell in love with Dylan a second time. Her body, her heart, her soul knew it. Every single part of her has always known Dylan's her road. One she'll travel for a thousand lifetimes. It could curve, bend, crumble, but she and Dylan will always find their way back to each other.

A ragged shudder escapes her. She dips forward in the chair and buries her face in her hands. "I said awful things to him," she moans miserably. "He'll never forgive me."

"Dylan doesn't care about any of that," Steve says. He glances down at his phone, reading a text. "He's miserable, Brenda. He's still home. Go talk to him."

When she raises her face, their gazes lock. Steve gives her a heartfelt smile. The connection between them stronger than ever. They're family and he'll always have her back.

Erica, her own eyes shining, nods in agreement. Brandon tilts his head, "I have seen you both apart and together. You're better together."

Her heart thumping, Brenda has a brief feud with her feelings before she rockets out of her chair. The thought's too much for her.

A life without Dylan—impossible. She needs to go back and apologize. She has to tell him she loves him and hope like hell he'll still have her.

In a flurry of motion, Brenda collects her purse, her shoes. She's at the door, tugging on one heel, when Erica calls out, "Wait!"

Quick, and with flourish, Erica fluffs her hair, fixes her makeup. Then, she surveys Brenda, sniffs. "Now…go get your man."

Brenda laughs and hugs her sister. "I love you and don't think were done with this Brandon and you conversation." She whispers in her ear. Erica rolls her eyes.

Looking toward Steve,"I need your keys."

A quick toss and Brenda catches them. Steve stands. "Good luck. And don't fuck up my Corvette."

Brenda shoots him a smile and laughs out loud, "Thank you."

She's gathering her strength and rushing out the door, her heart burning a hole through her chest. Back to Dylan's road.

Their road.

He's going to get Brenda. The image of his wife, running from him last night, is seared into his brain. He'll never forgive himself if he doesn't go to her and make amends. How he'll even start, the hell if he knows, he just has to make it right.

Dylan scowls at the empty pack of cigarettes and tosses it in the trash. Clenching his jaw, he shrugs on a clean white T-shirt, blue jeans. He's sobered, showered, and sane.

Never again will he sink down this drunken path like he has so many times before. That was the past and he has a present. With Brenda. He knows he doesn't deserve her. That he has no right to ask her to stay. He did this to himself. He's the one who chased her away with his lies, his bullshit, but he has to try. He's angry at himself for being a coward, for never giving Brenda what she so desperately wanted back.

Her memory.

The truth.

She had asked that of him and he had denied it. What kind of man was he? And yet, he's going to her. It might take a thousand lifetimes to make it up to her, but he will.

Dylan rushes to the dresser, hunting for the car keys he tossed there last night right before he went on his bender. Spying them behind a picture frame, he grabs them. He's turning when he sees a form in the doorway.

His breath catches. "Bren," he says softly.

He doesn't even know how long she's been watching him, waiting, but here she is. Grey eyes shining with tears, Brenda's still dressed in her gown. Her dark hair haloed around her pale face. She looks exhausted, pain fraying her beautiful edges, but also strong and determined. Before Dylan can say a word, she holds up a pair of car keys.

"I beat you," she says, flashing a small smile. His throat bobs with emotion as he stares at his wife.

"I was coming to get you."

Brenda bites her lip. "I know."

"Baby, listen—"

"No." She enters the bedroom, stepping over strewn clothes, a bottle of whiskey, uncaring about the mess. "I go first."

Dylan's stomach dips, his chest tightens, dreading her next words. But he steels himself. He deserves whatever she gives.

"I had a long night of thinking about things." Brenda's eyes drift downward. "I spent the night alone, in a hotel, wondering what to do. Wondering if everything I thought was true. And I realized that . . . it wasn't. I missed you. I need you, Dylan." When she looks up, her eyes glisten with tears. "If you still want me."

The words detonate something inside Dylan. In two fast boot-stomping strides, he's crossing the room. He cradles Brenda's face in his hands and crushes her mouth with a kiss. She doesn't resist, instead leaning into the kiss just as desperately. She whimpers as he plunges his hand into her hair. As he breathes her into him like his last breath. She pulls away with a gasp. Tears stream down her face. "I'm so sorry, Dylan. What I said last night to you was cruel." Regret cracks her voice. "I should have heard you out—"

Dylan pulls her tighter, shaking his head to silence her apology. "No. I'm sorry. You have nothing to apologize for." He cups her cheek, his fingers tangling in her hair. "I should have told you the truth. But it scared the hell out of me because I didn't want to hurt you. I didn't want anything to get in the way of your health. I was a coward. Selfish."

Brenda frowns and palms his stubbled cheek. "Dylan . . ."

"I was. I was terrified that if told you, I'd lose you. I've made a lot of mistakes in my life, but my biggest regret was losing you. I was scared if you knew our road, how we got here, you wouldn't make the same mistake twice."

"Our road isn't a mistake Dylan."

He swears at himself. "The part I've been playing in keeping you from remembering. . ."

"No. No. You didn't do any of that." A tear slides down her face.

Dylan brushes it away with the pads of his fingers. In his arms, she's trembling.

"You've helped me remember what I couldn't. Showed me a love I never knew was possible. You helped me live again."

"Still, if I could go back, I'd tell you everything."

"You don't have to. Steve, Erica and Brandon explained it all." Brenda looks at him tenderly. "You're a good man, Dylan. You have to forgive yourself. I do. I forgive you. I believe you. I believed you then and I believe you now. The past is the past, I don't care who you picked in high school Dylan. I care about the last ten years we've been together. Our ending."

Those words from Brenda's mouth, words he never thought he'd hear, destroy Dylan.

A tremor goes through him. "I can't believe your going to stay with me. I don't deserve you." Brenda silences him with a sweet kiss to his mouth. His eyes burn, and he kisses her back. Over and over and over.

"I love you. You have my heart, my soul, my song, Bren. You're my road. And I'll walk it with you till the ends of the earth. I love you."

Smiling, she reaches down to take his hand. The look on Dylan's face—a stiff grimace.

She's sharp, missing nothing. "What happened?"

He lifts his bloody hand, tries to make a fist. "I, uh, may have had a fight with a guitar…and a wall."

She purses her lips. "You're an idiot, Dylan McKay."

He grins at her, his heart full and ballooning by the second. "For you, always."

Without another word and only a look of wry disappointment, Brenda disappears into the bathroom. She returns with the first aid kit, making Dylan sit on the edge of the bed as she sits beside him. His hand in her lap, she cleans and bandages his wound.

He watches her angel hands work their magic, pride flaring in his chest at the bandage she's fashioned. She took a first aid class a few years ago and from the looks of the perfect bandaging, she remembered.

Lifting her head, Brenda says, "I saw your guitar downstairs."

The bright light dims in her eyes and her voice turns sad. "Why would you do that?"

"I barely use it anyway, I'll get a new one." His eyes lock on hers. "New start."

"Mmm." She leans into him and palms his stubbled cheek. "I like that."

Dylan sweeps her into his arms, his mouth meeting hers as he slowly drinks her in. Every breath, every part of his soul, he gives it to her. As if she could own any more of him.

The kiss turns from sweet to sexy, and before he knows it Brenda's climbing on top of him, ordering, "Get me out of this dress, Dylan."

"Fucking finally," he growls through his teeth. Without warning, Dylan reaches behind her and, with both hands, tears the skintight dress down to her waist. A delighted laugh tumbles from Brenda's lips.

Then, with the same hungry energy, she snatches at Dylan's T-shirt, dragging it over his head with a quick hand. When their lips meet again, he's smiling. He doesn't know what he's done to deserve this. All he knows is he has Brenda back, and he's never letting go again.

Brenda stirs in bed, opening her eyes to stare out the window. The room's cast in a golden glow. The early afternoon's faded to sundown. The soft rustle of sweetgrass can be faintly heard in the distance. And by her side, Dylan. A half-smile graces his face.

"Hi," she says.

"Hey," he says softly.

As if moving as one, Brenda angles her body slightly while Dylan reaches out to pull her tightly into his arms. Melting into him, she trails a finger down his chest. He catches her hand and kisses the diamond band on her finger.

Then Brenda slips out of bed, aware of Dylan's appreciative eyes on her. She tosses on a silk tank top and a pair of cotton shorts.

Dylan, leans up on his elbow, a wolfish grin on his face. Brenda smiles at the look she knows so well.

"You look hungry."

"Starved. For you," he says smoothly.

He makes a grab for her, trying to wrap an arm around her waist to tug her back to bed, but Brenda playfully evades his reach. She tosses him a look as she shimmies across the room, knowing full well what she's doing to him.

"Well, I, for one, am hungry." She arcs a brow. "For real food, Dylan. Nourishment, remember that?"

His eyes gleam. "Can't say it rings a bell."

Brenda laughs breathlessly. "Stay here, country boy. I'll go wrangle us up some food."

"Just bring yourself back," he says, stretching lazily in the sheets. A smile curves her lips at the sight of her tan, hot-as-hell husband. "That's all I need."

Smiling, Brenda pads softly downstairs to the kitchen. She shakes her head seeing Dylan's broken guitar and a fist size hole in the wall. Dumb idiot.

Ravenous, Brenda opens the fridge. She's barely eaten anything since Tootsie's. She couldn't think of anything but Dylan. And now, now she can't believe last night ever happened.

Brenda closes her eyes briefly, thankful for every lucky second chance she's gotten in this life. Her eyes scouring the contents of the fridge, Brenda decides on a simple meal of wine, rotisserie chicken and left over pasta salad.

A floorboard creaks in the foyer. A smile curls her lips. Dylan couldn't wait.

Brenda turns, shutting the fridge, a naughty remark on her lips, when she gasps.

The bottle of wine slips from her grasp. It hits the floor, shatters. Glass shrapnel cuts her ankles, her calves, but she barely feels a thing. All she can do is stare at the horror in front of her.

Marchette.

He came back.

To their house.

To get her.

He stands in the center of the kitchen, his frame silhouetted by the glow of the setting sun. In his hand, he holds a knife. Brenda sucks in a breath. Cold fear creeps over her bones as she meets Marchette's beady eyes.

Wrath radiates from his pores. His fists, fists she knows all too well, open and close, open and close. She wants to scream but she stays quiet. She has to be smart. She won't let Dylan be hurt; she'll die first.

Instead, her gaze scours the kitchen for a weapon, her mind instantly lighting on the shotgun Dylan has stored away in the closet, along with a semi automatic pistol. If she can just get to them but he's so close to her.

"What are you doing here?" She almost gags on the words.

"Isabel…my sweet Isabel," Marchette says with an evil smile. "It's been so long."

Fury tears through her. This is her house, her life, and Marchette is still trying to take it from her. Fuck him.

"Brenda…you thought you got away. You thought I'd let you go…live as Dylan's little wifey and I wouldn't come back to get my revenge." Marchette makes a tsk tsk noise with his tongue.

"You're a monster," Brenda shoots back. Her heart flutters in her chest, ready to stop. But she's not. She pulls her hands to fists. "And I'm not your fucking Isabel."

She swings, hard enough to connect with his jaw. It's not much, but it knocks him off-balance. It gives her a minute. Barely.

Brenda darts for the hallway. For the shotgun. He's on her fast. Before Brenda can shout for help, warn Dylan, Marchette rushes up behind her. He wraps one arm around her midsection, trapping her to him, and sticks the knife to her throat.

"Precious Isabel, you just never learn, do you?"

Brenda freezes, her breath hitching in her chest. Her stomach contracts as every muscle in her body aches to be free. To fight. But she barely dares to move, the tip of the knife so close to her jugular that one slip could end her.

Marchette laughs—a terrible and cold sound that churns her stomach. He begins to pull her back into the kitchen, her bare feet dragging the floor.

"After everything I've done for you, nursing you back to health, keeping you safe and protected…keeping you alive, this is how you repay me?"

Marchette snarls. "I had rules, Brenda, and you broke them. I have to teach you a lesson."

Brenda looks past him, toward the doorway, the stairs, where any second Dylan will be down to see why she hasn't come back to him yet.

God, no, please, no—She has to act fast. Do something, anything.

"Dylan doesn't get to keep you, he doesn't get to be happy with a new wife. Did you know your precious husband was married before? My Antonia, he tricked her into marrying him, if it wasn't for him she'd be alive."

"You killed her." Brenda says strong.

Marchette presses the knife deeper into her throat. Brenda holds her breath, a tear sliding effortlessly down her cheek.

"Lies. It was meant for him. We were always suppose to meet like this Brenda. He wasn't suppose to be happy. I killed his father, he killed my daughter but Jack's alive. So now he owes me. He owes me you."

His breath slops hot against her ear and Brenda shudders. "It's only fair Brenda. He didn't even love Antonia. He loved you. I've been watching the way he followed you to London, the way he looked at you like you hung the moon, how no matter what happened the two of you always came back together. My daughter died for nothing, he would have left her for you. So now my sweet Brenda, you die for nothing too. Dylan took something precious from me…now I take what's precious to him. "

An idea screams at her. One that tells her to meet madness with madness.

"Do it, then," Brenda says quietly, matching Marchette's unruffled voice with her own.

Surprised by her words, Marchette blinks, the knife bobbing in his hand. For a long second, it pulls back from her throat, and Brenda sees her chance.

Craning her neck to look up at him, she meets his burning stare. "Well? What're you waiting for? You want revenge right?"

"Yes," Marchette says, licking his lips. "Yes." His hand trembles, the knife rearing back to take aim, and that's when Brenda attacks. She wrenches her body roughly from his and drives her elbow down hard into his stomach. The knife clatters to the floor.

Marchette lets out a roar, anger burning bright in his dark eyes. Brenda screams at the top of her lungs and lunges for the hallway, but she's too late. Marchette wraps a hand in her hair and jerks roughly.

Her head snaps back, her brain whiplashing in her skull. Before she can regain her bearings, he shoves her against the wall, holding her in place by pressing his body against her. Then Marchette's monstrous hand covers her mouth, her nose.

Panic grips Brenda. She writhes, jerking under his grip to be free. To breathe. Her hands grasp at Marchette's, struggling to pull them away, and failing.

With greasy fingers, he roughly caresses her face, her hair. His hot breath singes her cheek. "Not this time Brenda. Not this time do you get away from me." Both hands move to her throat. And they squeeze.

Brenda arches, a gasp wrenching from her lungs as his grip intensifies. Oh God, she can't get air. She'll die here in her kitchen, and Dylan…Oh God, Dylan—Stars burst in her vision, and her ears ring. The world blurs in front of her, a blackening of its edges, as Brenda fights to be strong, fights to live, despite her body begging her to let go. To give in to that final dark wave. Marchette lifts her, dragging her up the wall with both hands. She feels the slipping of her feet from the floor, feels her arms hanging slack at her sides, feels her eyes crossing.

"You kept running. You kept running, Isabel. From me. From your husband. You could have lived…lived with me. What kind of wife are you?"

Not yours. Not your wife, Brenda thinks right before her mind gives out. Never.

As Brenda sinks into unconsciousness, the last thing she sees is Marchette's hands.

Around her throat.

The scream that tears through the house is like a grenade to Dylan's heart.

"Brenda!" he yells, rushing down the hall and launching himself down the stairs. When he slams into the kitchen, he stops dead in his tracks. His brain barely registers what he's seeing. Anthony Marchette. And Brenda, her throat caught in his hands. She hangs boneless in his grip, her body pressed up against the wall. Her bare feet barely grazing the tile, her big grey blue eyes rolled back towards her skull, her head drooping to one side.

"No!" Dylan roars.

He rushes Marchette, driving a fist into his head, then another to his back. Marchette yelps in pain and releases Brenda.

She drops facedown on the cold floor, her limp body twisted unnaturally beneath her.

Time stops. His heart gives out. She doesn't rise from the floor, and Dylan can't tell if she's breathing or not. No. Oh God, no. The sight of her, as broken as the guitar she lies by, sends Dylan over the edge.

Rage—murderous and violent billows over him. Tearing his eyes from Brenda, Dylan finally faces the ugly, monstrous fuck who took his wife.

He grits his teeth, his hands curling at his side. He knows one thing for certain—he will not let Marchette take her again.

"You son of a bitch!" Dylan doesn't hesitate. He launches himself at Marchette, smashing fists to his face, his chest, his head.

Marchette bellows. But he's slow and shuffling, unable to dislodge Dylan, even though he tries to deliver blow after blow to Dylan's side. Finally, he lands one. Knocking the wind out of him. A rush of air from his lungs. And as Dylan gets his bearings, so does Marchette. "You don't get to live happy. You don't get to have a pretty wife. You said we were even, we aren't fucking even." Marchette yells.

He charges Dylan, smashing his shoulder into his chest. Dylan crashes to the floor. But he's up fast, on his feet and snarling.

"Your problem is with me. You want a McKay dead. Then kill me. Kill me you mother fucker!" He screams. "You don't get to have Brenda!"

Marchette huffs and runs towards him, Dylan moves quickly to the side, he grips the back of his head and slams his face into the wall. Marchette stumbles back, dazed, then collapses to the floor. He doesn't rise.

Silence swallows the kitchen. Marchette's ragged breathing pierces the air. Then—The most beautiful sound in the world. Soft coughing fills the kitchen. Brenda gasping for air, breathing her life back into her.

Thank God, thank God, Dylan thinks before hurtling to Brenda who's trying to push herself up on her palms.

He lightly gathers Brenda to his chest, helping her sit up. She collapses limply against him, her eyes glassy with pain. Her head lolls from side to side, her entire body spasming as she fights to live.

"Breathe," Dylan begs. "Breathe for me…" Bracing her against his chest, he breathes with her, slowly, deeply, taking Brenda's pain as his own.

He brushes her hair aside, needing to examine her, to feel her precious heartbeat, to see for himself that she's okay when—Brenda stiffens in his arms. Her eyes wide, lasered on a spot over his shoulder.

Dylan turns. He barely noticed the shambling footsteps. The slow rise of Marchette. His hateful eyes lifting to them.

A cry rasps from Brenda. "Dylan, watch out, he has a knife—"

Even as weak as she is, Brenda tries to position her body in front of Dylan. The knife appears in Marchette's hand, slicing air as he charges them. Desperate to get at either one of them. To kill. Dylan's ready. Whip-quick, he reaches for the neck of the broken guitar, in one swift motion, he grabs up the guitar stake. Staggering to his feet, his body blocking Brenda, he meets Marchette head-on, and drives the jagged stake through Marchette's neck.

Brenda's up, beside him, helping him, giving him every last ounce of her strength for that final push into muscle and bone. A stream of blood sprays across the room.

Marchette sways, as if stunned, then his body tumbles to the floor with a final, sickening thud. He's down.

For good.

Forever.

Slowly, Dylan turns to face Brenda. "Brenda," he croaks, pressing a hand to her heart to show her its him, to show her she's safe. She's finally safe. She doesn't respond, and he sees she's having that same realization. She's safe.

It's written all over her face, in her ever-widening eyes, in her stunned expression. Relief, sheer relief.

Then Brenda gasps. Her body's had its limit, and as her adrenaline plummets, her legs give out. Dylan's instantly catches her in his arms.

"Stay with me, Bren" he begs, lowering her to the floor. Her pulse is thready, her breathing agonized, her face unnaturally white. Too white. "Please," he whispers, voice breaking.

Brenda's hand, cold and trembling, finds Dylan's cheek. For a second, her glassy eyes hold on his face, then a pained sigh escapes her lips. Her eyes flutter shut, her body goes limp. And Brenda sinks into unconsciousness once more.

Dylan cradles her against his chest. Holding her heartbeat against his body. Holding his wife in his arms, "Please baby. Stay with me…stay with me Bren." Dylan rocks her, holding her, sobbing, "God please, please, please god…baby come back to me." He begs, praying that this time, he wasn't too late.

OMG He's dead! Well that wasn't easy to write. Hope it was suspenseful enough for you. As you can see Brenda and Dylan's misunderstanding didn't last long. They are to strong for that crap. Next up, we find out Brenda's condition, also I think a flashback of Brandon and Erica getting together, not quite sure. Also…Dylan finds out about them. Hit review my loves. This one is almost finished.