Her eyes flickered. Finally. Some tiny spark of awareness breaking through the terror.
"Watch me," I continued. I exaggerated my breathing, made it visible. Let my chest rise and fall in that deliberate four-count rhythm I'd practiced ten thousand times. "In—two, three, four. Hold—two, three, four. Out—two, three, four."
Her eyes found mine. Grey-green and terrified and so lost it made my chest ache. But she was trying. I could see the effort in the way her expression shifted, the way she fought to focus on something outside herself.
She gasped in air. Ragged. Uncontrolled. Held it for maybe two counts. Released it too fast.
"Good," I said, keeping my voice low and steady. The tone I'd use with a spooked animal or a frightened child. Both of which applied. "That's good. Again. In—two, three, four."
I demonstrated again, my hand still resting on her knee through the blanket. The contact seemed to help. Gave her something to anchor to.
She tried again. Better this time. Managed to hold the breath for three counts before releasing it in a shaky exhale.
"Perfect," I murmured. "You're doing so well, devotchka. Keep breathing with me."
Three more cycles and she was starting to calm. The violent shaking reduced to smaller tremors. Her breathing was still ragged but improving. Color started returning to her face—I hadn't realized how pale she'd gone until I saw the blood flow returning.
"That's it," I said. Kept my voice quiet, soothing. "In and out. You're safe. I'm right here."
Her eyes stayed locked on mine. Using my face as an anchor. Using my breathing as a guide. Slowly, painfully, dragging herself back to the present moment.
The panic attack probably lasted less than ten minutes total. Felt like an hour. Felt like watching someone drown in open air and being helpless to do anything but throw words at the water.
But finally—finally—her breathing evened out. The trembling reduced to occasional shivers. The glazed terror in her eyes cleared enough that I could see her actually seeing me instead of whatever nightmare had been playing on repeat.
"There you are," I whispered.
She made a small sound. Not quite a word. Just a desperate noise that said she was still too fragile, still too close to falling back into panic.
I should leave. She was stabilized. Breathing normally. Present in her body again. She didn't need me hovering. Didn't need the man who'd bought her sitting on her bed at three in the morning while she was vulnerable and scared.
But when I started to stand, she made another sound. Sharper. More desperate.
Don't go.
I understood without her having to say it.
"Would you like me to stay?" I asked.
She nodded. Small. Jerky. Her hands still clutching that blanket like it was the only thing keeping her together.
"Okay," I said simply. "I'll stay."
I moved to the leather armchair by the window. Settled into it, keeping my posture relaxed, unthreatening. Close enough to reach her if she needed me. Far enough that I wasn't crowding.
The silence stretched. She was calmer now but still shaky. Still wrapped in that blanket like armor. I needed to distract her. Give her something else to focus on besides whatever nightmare had clawed its way out of her subconscious.
"Let me tell you a story," I said quietly. "About my grandfather. Dedushka Mikhail."
Her eyes tracked to me. Wary but curious. Like she wasn't sure what I was doing but was willing to listen if it meant not being alone with her thoughts.
I leaned back in the chair. Made myself comfortable. Let my voice drop into that low, soothing register that meant safety.
"I was seven years old the first time my grandfather taught me chess," I began, letting my voice settle into the low, soothing cadence my father had used for bedtime stories. Back when I was small enough to believe stories could protect you from the world. "It was winter in Moscow—the kind of cold that makes your lungs hurt when you breathe. Every exhale turned to mist. The snow was so deep we had tunnels between buildings instead of paths."
Sophie's breathing had already started to even out. She was listening. Still wrapped in her blanket but no longer shaking.
"My father had just been made Pakhan," I continued. "Which meant my grandfather officially retired, though everyone knew he still ran half the organization from his study. The old men would come for tea and sit for hours discussing territory and strategy while pretending they were talking about the weather."
