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“If you’re feeling up for it,” I reply. “There should be some tomatoes and cucumbers that are ready to pick. Plus, a few of the rose bushes need pruning. But you’re still recovering, so I don’t want you pushing it?—”

“Erik.” Tatum grins. “All I did was some gentle yoga. Not running for miles or lifting hundreds of pounds like you guys do. I think I can handle a little gardening. Especially since you won’t let me do any of the hard work.”

I smile back at her. “What kind of gentleman would I be if I made you do the hard stuff while I just sat back and watched?”

“A lot of guys wouldn’t care,” she retorts. Then her expression softens. “But you do. And I really like how you?—”

From down the hallway, the muffled sound of a gun firing makes her pause.

In rapid sequence, five more shots follow.

Tatum goes absolutely still. Her smile drops.

“It’s fine,” I tell her. “Remember, there’s a shooting range down here, too. It’s mostly soundproofed, so you can’t hear anything upstairs. But when you’re in the hallway, some of the sound travels.”

In a matter of seconds, all the color drains from her face. Tiny tremors shake her body.

“Tate?” I rub her shoulder, feeling goosebumps prickling across her skin. “It’s just the shooting range. That’s all. Nothing to worry about.”

But she doesn’t respond. Doesn’t speak.

Fear darkens her eyes. Her gaze grows distant.

A small, scared sound works its way up her throat. She hunches into herself, wrapping her arms around her stomach protectively. Her breathing speeds up, coming in shallow, uneven gasps.

Fuck.

“Tate.” I lean down so my face is level with hers. I try to capture her attention, but it’s like she’s looking right through me. Gently taking hold of her arms, I give them a little squeeze. “Tate. It’s just one of my teammates, practicing. It’s okay. I promise.”

But it doesn’t work. She’s gone. And I’m pretty damn sure I know where she went.

I know because I’ve been there myself. Caught in memories I’d much rather forget, not just remembering them, butfeelingthem. The sound of the explosion so loud it hurts my ears. Theheat of the flames singing my skin. The pain so real I could swear it’s happening all over again.

Fuck.

I should have thought.

When I brought Tate down to the exercise room in the basement, I never even considered its proximity to the shooting range. Or that the sounds of my teammates practicing could trigger Tate into a flashback.

Fuck.

I feel horrible.

Another series of gunshots filter through the shooting range door, and Tatum’s body jerks slightly at each of them. Her breathing gets even faster. More erratic. More desperate.

Shit.

How can I talk her through this right here? When another gunshot could throw her right back to the island again?

I could run down the hallway to the range; get whoever’s practicing in there to stop. But that would mean leaving Tate alone in her panic, which I refuse to do.

Which means I need to get her away from here. Away from the basement and someplace quiet to help her calm down.

“Tate,” I try again. “Can you walk with me? We’ll go back upstairs. Outside if you want. What do you think?”

But, dammit, she doesn’t answer me.

I’m not surprised; knowing how all-encompassing a flashback can be. Especially when the trauma is so fresh. Especially when she’s in an unfamiliar place with none of her things around to comfort her.