Don't Mess With Nash
~NASH~
We're about to enter Charlotte's office building—a modest two-story brick structure on Oak Street with 'Henderson Pack Consulting' in gold letters on the glass door—when I notice Reverie's breathing pattern has changed dramatically.
Wrong.
Too shallow. Too fast. Chest barely moving.
Borderline hyperventilating but trying to hide it.
I've seen panic attacks before. Plenty of them. Saw them in the military when soldiers got their first taste of combat. Saw them in myself after I got out and tried to adjust to civilian life. I know the signs. The shallow breathing. The pale complexion. The trembling hands. The dilated pupils. The distress scent spike.
Theo and Grayson are already moving toward the entrance with focused determination, mentally preparing for the confrontation ahead with Kael and whatever legal nonsense he'scooked up. Their shoulders are squared. Jaws set. Ready for battle.
But I stop walking abruptly, reaching out to catch Reverie's wrist gently but firmly before she can blindly follow them inside and walk straight into a confrontation she's not mentally prepared for.
My Alpha instincts are screaming. Something's wrong with our Omega. She's not okay. Not even close. Every protective instinct I have is firing at once. Fix it. Protect her. Keep her safe. Don't let her get hurt.
She turns to look at me, confusion cutting through the panic for just a brief moment. Her vanilla-caramel scent is spiking dramatically with distress and fear—sharp acrid bitter notes cutting through the usual sweetness like acid. Making my Alpha instincts scream louder to protect.
To fix. To defend.
Her pupils are dilated wide, almost completely black, swallowing the color. Her hands are trembling visibly—fine motor tremors she can't control. Her face has gone pale, almost ghostly white, bloodless. Her lips have a slight blue tinge from poor oxygen circulation.
Classic panic attack symptoms.
Every single one. Textbook presentation. I've seen this before too many times. In combat. In myself. In Theo during his worst episodes. I know exactly what's happening to her body right now. Fight or flight response gone haywire. Nervous system in overdrive. Adrenaline flooding. Rational brain shutting down.
If she walks into that office in this condition, Kael will see it immediately.
Will know he's already won the psychological warfare.
That cannot happen.
I won't allow it.
I turn her fully toward me with both hands on her shoulders, applying gentle but firm pressure to ground her, making her focus on me instead of the building ahead.
Instead of Kael and his lies.
"I need you to breathe properly before you go in there," I say firmly, keeping my voice low and calm. Non-threatening but authoritative.
"I am breathing," she protests automatically, defensively, but her voice is thin and thready and wrong.
Shaky. Too high-pitched.
She genuinely doesn't realize how bad it is. Thinks she's handling it. Thinks she's in control. That's the dangerous part about panic attacks—they sneak up on you, convince you you're fine until suddenly you're not.
I cup her face between my hands carefully, tilting her head up so her eyes have no choice but to lock onto mine. Hold her gaze. Make her see me. Focus on me. Ground her in this moment.
Then I kiss her—short, firm, deliberate. Not passionate or romantic. Strategic. Calculated. The kind of kiss designed specifically to shock her system. Force a reaction. Break the panic spiral.
She breaks the kiss immediately, gasping sharply for air—a proper deep breath for the first time since we parked the truck. Her chest heaves with actual oxygen intake. Her lungs expand fully.
There. That's what I needed. Reset her breathing rhythm. Interrupt the panic cycle. Give her body a reason to remember how to function.
"If you were breathing properly like you claim," I say quietly but firmly, keeping my hands on her face to maintain the grounding contact, "you wouldn't look like a ghost about to pass out on this sidewalk in front of witnesses."
