Page 47 of Misery

"Fear." The word slips out before I can stop it. Raw honesty on my tongue.

"That's okay. Fear's just information. Your body is telling you to pay attention." His thumbs stroke my shoulders. Gentle circles that shouldn't be soothing but are. "But you're safe. You're in Emil's loft. Safest place in the city. Behind three locked doors and biometric scanners. I'm here. Nothing's going to hurt you."

My breathing slows incrementally. Still too fast but better. The room stops its nauseating spin and settles back into place.

"How did you know?" I whisper. My throat feels raw like I've been screaming. Maybe I was. "How to do that? The counting thing?"

Something flickers in his eyes. Pain. Old hurt. "My mom—Charm—she had panic attacks. After she lost a baby. After Ingrid was born."

"Oh." The single syllable carries weight.

"Yeah. Dad was on a run once when she had a bad one. Gone for days with the club. I was just a kid. Had to figure it out." His hands are still on my shoulders. Steady. Present. "Got good at recognizing the signs. The breathing that goes shallow and quick. The look in someone's eyes when they're drowning in their own head. The way muscles lock up right before the spiral."

"I'm sorry. About the baby."

"Long time ago. She's okay now. Mostly. I don’t think a woman can ever get over that sort of grief, but they learn to live with it." He shifts, sitting beside me against the wall. Not crowding. Just there. Our thighs barely touch, but that small contact feels like everything. "What triggered it?"

"The scar." I touch my shoulder without thinking. The raised tissue that will never be smooth again. "And remembering those bodies. Someone carved 'little artist' into a person for me. Who does that? What kind of person thinks that's a gift?"

"Someone who thinks violence is a gift." His voice is matter-of-fact. No judgment.

"Is it? In your world?"

He's quiet for a long moment. I can hear him breathing, measured and controlled. "Sometimes. Protection through brutality. Safety through fear. It's fucked up, but it's how we survive. How we keep what's ours safe."

"And someone's doing that for me.Killingfor me."

"Yeah."

"Why?"

"Don't know yet." But something in his voice says he suspects. There's a tightness there, a recognition he's not voicing. "Does it matter?"

"Yes. Because I need to know if they're protecting me or stalking me. If they're hero or villain. If I should be grateful or terrified."

"Maybe they're both."

I turn to look at him.

Reallylook.

He's in just a t-shirt and jeans.

Feet bare like he ran here without thinking.

Hair messed like he's been running his hands through it.

There's a wildness to him.

"Like you?"

"I'm no hero."

"But you protect me."

"That's different."

"Why?"