Page 22 of Splintered Memories (Ember Hollow Romance #2)

Emersyn

I glared at the group of kids who’d set off the firecrackers.

The teenage boys were cackling at the stir of commotion they’d caused until an older man on the outskirts of the bonfire scolded them. They scurried away, and I watched as they disappeared into the park.

I rolled my eyes and turned back to August. I froze at the expression on his face.

He had pulled from me, his eyes wide and wild as he stared into the bonfire. A sheen of sweat glistened on his forehead as he gripped his left shoulder so tight his knuckles blanched.

Something cold and unnerved slid down my back. I stiffened.

“August?” I had never seen that look on his face before. Gone was the casual, easygoing smile. Gone was the ever-watchful caution in his eye. There was nothing but blind panic in his expression. “Are you all right?”

He didn’t acknowledge me. His eyes didn’t move from the fire; his fingers dug deeper into his shoulder as his shallow breathing escalated. There was something in the way his mouth twisted, the pinching around his eyes that I couldn’t place.

My pulse spiked as I glanced around. I didn’t see any sign of danger. Nothing seemed to be out of place.

But something was very wrong.

“August?” I said his name again, louder this time. I lifted my hand, hesitating before I pressed my palm against his knee. “What’s wrong?”

The moment I touched him, he jerked back, standing so quickly he almost lost his balance. I tried to grab for him, but he took two swift steps back, his eyes whirling around before they finally focused on me.

He blinked once. Those gray eyes of his had glossed over, his pupils dilated despite the bright flames of the bonfire. Dread, heavy and suffocating, bore down on me as I gaped at him.

August’s eyes seemed to focus then, his mouth parting as he stared at me. “Emersyn?”

He sounded as confused as I felt. It was as if he didn’t know where he was or what was going on.

“What’s wrong, August?” I repeated, wanting to go to him, but scared he would retreat again.

He still clutched his shoulder, and I finally recognized what was tightening his features behind the shock and fear—it was pain. He was in pain, and I didn’t know why.

I stood, needing to know what was going on and how I could help. “What hurts?” I took the few steps separating us. A few people close to us shot us odd looks, but I didn’t care.

August shook his head, his mouth twisting into a wince as his body stiffened. “I need to go,” he said, his voice tight between clenched teeth.

Before I could stop him, he turned, stumbling away from the bonfire and toward the entrance of the park.

I was right on his heels, my panic surging. August didn’t run away. Something was extremely wrong if he was walking away from me in a crowded park at night.

His steps were so quick I had to run to keep up with him. “Wait,” I called, catching up with him. “August, what’s going on? Do you need a doctor?”

He didn’t slow down, though his eyes flicked to mine briefly. “I need to go,” was all he repeated.

I had no idea what was going on. That wild, unfocused look lingered, along with the pain on his face. We were almost to the entrance of the park. My vehicle wasn’t far. I wasn’t sure what his plan was, but I wouldn’t leave him.

My fingers curled around his elbow, gripping tight until he slowed down. “Okay,” I said, nodding as he looked at me with more panic. “You can go, but I’m going with you.”

He slowed his pace but hadn’t stopped. I clung to him, refusing to let go. He studied me for a long moment, as if it took his brain awhile to process what I said.

When he didn’t answer, I pulled him in the direction of where I’d parked. “Come on,” I said, making a decision for him. “Let me get you out of here. I’ll take you home.”

He didn’t say anything, but he didn’t fight me as I walked him to my SUV. He climbed into the passenger seat, never letting go of his left shoulder. I winced at the strength of his grip. He would have bruises later .

August was quiet as I drove. There was nothing but his labored breaths and occasional winces. He shook his head when I continued to ask whether he needed a doctor. I wasn’t sure I believed him, but I couldn’t see what was wrong. He didn’t appear to be bleeding. He hadn’t fallen.

Whatever made August so scared, it had my fingers trembling over the steering wheel.

Things started to unravel after we stepped inside my house.

August paced the length of the living room.

Back and forth he walked, turning sharply on his heel at each end.

He clutched his shoulder harder. I watched him for a while, taking him in.

His body was rigid; sweat beaded on his forehead and rolled down his temples in rivulets.

The longer he paced, the more his face twisted with pain.

He muttered under his breath…groaning, rushed words that I couldn’t decipher.

I stood in the corner of the room, arms folded around myself until I couldn’t take it anymore.

I cut him off as he turned to stride the length of the room again. He almost ran right into me, his eyes widening at my disruption.

Giving him a hard stare, I planted my feet. “How can I help you?”

A muscle in his jaw ticced. As he looked down at me, he seemed so very lost, as if he were fighting with everything he had just to see and hear me. His body was vibrating, his limp left hand trembling at his side.

When he didn’t answer, I asked, “Do you need me to call someone? Reid?”

At the mention of his brother, his chin jerked to the side. “No.” He gasped the word. “Don’t. I—I don’t want…” He squeezed his eyes closed as a tremor racked through him .

“Tell me what’s happening so I know how to help you,” I said, my voice on the verge of desperation. This was nothing like the August I knew.

He shook his head again. “I just need to remember where I am.”

Recognition twisted in my chest. He was having some kind of anxiety or panic attack.

It had been a long time since I’d seen someone go through it, but now that it hit me, I knew that’s what was happening.

Delainey used to struggle with them when she was in high school.

Before she moved out and started seeing a therapist, she used to have them too often.

She’d hide in my room when they hit her, not wanting our mother to see her like that.

Without thinking, I stepped closer to August. I put my hands on his hips. His muscles were taut and hard beneath his thin cotton shirt. “You’re at home, August,” I reassured him. “You’re with me, and you’re safe.”

A flicker of pain flashed across his face, and he closed his eyes again. “I know,” he said, voice straining. “But I can’t keep my grasp on it. I can’t—” He hissed through his teeth as his fingers dug into his shoulder, as if he were trying to stanch the flow of blood.

My hands gripped his waist. “What do you feel?” I said, wanting to ground him in this moment.

“Pain,” he said immediately. A tremor shook through him.

“Where?”

He grunted. “My shoulder.”

He had insisted he didn’t need a doctor, but now, I wasn’t so sure. “Can I take a look?”

Tentatively, he opened his eyes. It took him a moment to focus on me, but eventually, he nodded .

Good. That was good. At least he was letting me do something.

I steered him toward the couch, pushing him down the moment the backs of his knees hit the edge. He didn’t let go of his shoulder. I waited, but he didn’t move, didn’t loosen that grip.

I lowered myself onto the open seat on his left side. I didn’t know whether I should touch him, but I had to do something.

I swallowed. “Can you show me where it hurts?”

August gritted his teeth, throwing a look of desperation at me. “I’m—I think I need help.”

I nodded, though I wasn’t sure what that meant. He looked at his shoulder, at the hand that held it in a vise.

Tentatively, I reached for him. As if he were made of the most delicate material in the world, I brushed my fingertips over the back of his hand.

He didn’t move, but he didn’t flinch away.

I took that as a good sign and pressed a bit harder, covering the back of his hand with mine.

He still didn’t let go of that shoulder.

It was as if his hand were frozen there.

After a few minutes, I began to rub slow, soothing circles over his hand. “It’s okay,” I said in low, calming tones. “You’re safe, August. You’re home.”

Gradually, his hand beneath mine relaxed. One by one, I extracted his fingers from his shoulder and was able to pull his hand away. I placed it on his lap.

He watched me, taking in deep lungfuls of air as if he were running and not sitting stone-still on my couch.

I stared at his shoulder. The dark-gray fabric of his long-sleeved shirt covered it. If I was going to see any injury, I’d have to either cut his shirt or have him take it off .

My fingers drifted toward the hem of it near his waist. “Can you take this off?” I gave it a little tug. “So I can see your shoulder?”

He gave me a slow blink before he nodded, but he didn’t move to take it off.

I frowned, my eyes bouncing to his shoulder and then back to his face. “Can I help you take it off?”

Again, he only nodded.

Right. Okay. My heart galloped, blood rushing through me as I inhaled a steady breath and inched up the hem of his shirt. He only watched me, eyes dark and hooded, but tinged with pain.

My skin heated as I revealed the defined, sculpted muscles of his abdomen.

They were so very tight, straining beneath his smooth, tan skin.

I tried to keep my mind off how the sight of his body affected me as I pulled the shirt up to his chiseled pectorals.

This man was hurting; it wasn’t a time to ogle him.

“Slip your right arm out,” I instructed.

He did so. Without making him lift his left arm at all, I pulled his shirt over his head. Carefully, I eased the shirt down his collarbone and off his left shoulder.

My breath caught. It felt as if my heart had lodged itself between my ribs as I took in that shoulder. Everything started to make sense, careening into place.

August had been a marine. He never talked about his time in the military or the things he had done, but he had come home because he’d been injured.

My stomach cramped at the sight of the gnarled knot of scar tissue peppering his entire shoulder from below the collarbone to halfway down his upper arm.

They were all different shapes and sizes, as if someone had taken multiple tools and shoved them through his flesh, stabbing and slashing.

Some were pink and raised, while others were flat and concave.

Dizziness swirled around me as I realized I wasn’t breathing.

I sucked in a deep breath through my nose, trying to calm myself in the wake of those scars, the damage that had been done to him.

It had to have been excruciating. There were five, fresh red marks right where his fingers had dug into it.

I forced my eyes back to his.

His forehead puckered, his mouth in a tight wince as he blinked at me. As if he were waiting for bad news.

“You’re okay, August.” I forced my voice to stay steady.

Because even though the scars were brutal, they were nothing but that…

scars. I saw no fresh injury. I didn’t know whether scars could cause the type of pain that was stark on August’s face, but I didn’t think he was in any danger. Not anymore.

“Is there blood?” he muttered with a grimace, still not looking at it. His eyes remained on me.

My heart sank. I shook my head. “No.”

That seemed to confuse him, because the line between his brows deepened.

My teeth sank into my bottom lip. This was a little different than a panic attack. I wondered, with a nauseating twist in my gut, whether this was what PTSD looked like for August. Whatever had happened to him, it had been traumatic.

I made a decision then. I wasn’t sure it was the right thing, but it was the only thing I knew how to do. He needed to be grounded .

My hand found his, and I squeezed. “What do you feel?” I asked him again.

He wasn’t as quick to answer this time. But again, he said, “It hurts.”

I wrapped both of my hands around his, pulling it against my chest. I wanted him to feel the warmth of my skin. His hand was so cold.

“What about now?” I placed his palm against the bare skin peeking out above the neckline of my shirt. “Can you feel my heartbeat?”

His eyelids fluttered, his eyes clearing a bit as he glanced down at his hand. Mine pressed hard on top of his, willing him to focus on the rushing pulse pounding through me.

“It’s so fast,” he whispered, and I smiled despite everything.

“Good,” I breathed, nodding. “It is. Now, what do you see?”

His eyes flicked back up to mine. “Green,” he said without hesitation.

I nodded. “Yes, good. My eyes are green.” Already his muscles were starting to ease. “What do you smell?” Grounded. He needed to be grounded here in this moment and not whatever nightmare memory was threatening to overtake him.

He leaned toward me; the warmth from his bare skin enveloped me as he softly inhaled. “You smell like warmth. Like home.”

I stilled, my face heating as all that pain completely leached from his face.

Instead, his eyes darkened like the clouds right before a summer storm.

He continued leaning toward me, his head dipping and tilting to the side.

I didn’t dare move. I didn’t dare even breathe as he brushed the tip of his nose back and forth against the sensitive place where my neck met my shoulder.

His breath ghosted over my skin, sending a wave of chills rippling down my body.

I didn’t pull away from him. I didn’t want to as he inhaled again, deeply this time.

Then, I was almost positive he pressed a featherlight kiss there, right against the crook of my neck.

The kiss was quick and when it was over, he wrapped an arm around me.

With one hand still pressed over my beating heart, he hugged me against him, burying his face in my shoulder.

His body sagged into me like a relieved sigh, like he had finally let that haunting memory go. Or maybe, it had let him go. All tension disappeared from him in an instant.

My heart shivered as he murmured against my skin, his voice breaking, “Thank you.”