Page 42 of Saxon

"Good girl, now hold it."

My vision clears, a little. The iron bands loosen and cool a touch.

"Let it out, nice and slow." His voice is in my ear, his hands on mine. He breathes out through his lips as if blowing out a candle, and I mimic him. "And in again, nice and slow. Count to eight, if you can."

Air in my lungs is like coming alive. The cocktail straw expands into a drinking straw and the milkshake thins. My vision coalesces and the pounding in my skull dulls to a throb.

"Now, hold the air in. Count to seven again. With me. Ready? one…two…three…four…five…six…seven. Now imagine you have a birthday cake in front of you—a big chocolate cake with a bunch of candles on it, all lit and flickering. Try to blow them out for me. Blow out all the candles, Terra."

It's no longer an effort of will to draw in air, no longer requires concentration to exhale.

The speedometer reads 115.

I yank my foot off the accelerator, and the Range Rover slows. Coasts. Stops. We're in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by darkness, the only light the stars and moon and a distant white point of light from a farmhouse in the distance.

Saxon's hand shifts the vehicle into Park, and as if that was some kind of signal, my whole body just…snaps. Melts. Dissolves.

Suddenly, I'm hiccupping, sobbing, gasping—full-on ugly crying.

There are no thoughts in my brain, or maybe there are too many swirling too fast to catch any of them, a billion emotions howling inside like a tornado.

My door opens, and a hand unbuckles the seatbelt. Hands slide under my thighs and around my shoulders, lifting me bodily out from behind the wheel. Cool night air irradiates my lunges and bathes my skin.

Movement. Crickets sing. Feet crunch on gravel. I’m lowered to the ground.

My face meets a towering wall of male chest—I smell sweat and cologne and deodorant. Warmth. His arms wrap around me, and instead of feeling trapped and imprisoned and claustrophobic, I feel…

Safe.

I think that's the feeling, at least. It's new. Unfamiliar.

His lips brush my hairline above my temple, his nose inhaling my scent as if breathing in the finest perfume. I'm on his lap, cradled in his arms like a child, sobbing against his chest. I feel snot dribbling from my nose, but can’t do anything about it.

He doesn't say a single goddamn syllable. Doesn't shush me, doesn't tell me it's gonna be okay, doesn't ask what's wrong.

He just holds me.

How long do I sob? It feels like maybe ten or fifteen minutes, but it could be more. After a while, the sobs quiet into sniffles and slow tears.

"I'm sorry," I whisper.

"Stuff your apology up your ass, Terra." He sounds angry.

I pull away and look up at him. "I…"

He pushes out a ragged breath. "I wanna fuckin’ murder whoever hurt you."

"I…it was…it's not—" Fuck, where do I even start?

"Only reason people have panic attacks that fuckin' bad is because someone else caused us pain—unimaginable fuckin' agony."

"You knew what was happening."

"Yeah."

"How?"

"Camilla had 'em."