Huffing out a breath, she says, “Fine. I’ll stay in your room.”
“And move all your things in there.”
“Yes,” is bitten out between her teeth. “But I’m going to keep my room in case you piss me off, which I expect will be often. And because I need a place to study without you hovering over me.”
“I don’t hover.”
“You’re always hovering.”
“You’re not here enough to draw conclusions like that.”
She leans on her elbows, fluttering her eyelashes. “Aww, that sounds like you’re missing me, husband.”
For the first time since she moved in, I let my gaze rake over her body. From her pouty lips to her wicked curves. Propped up on the counter as she is, she’s practically on display for me. Realizing it a little too late, she straightens with a scowl.
“Don’t take this as an invitation,” she snaps.
“I wouldn’t dare. But why don’t you go upstairs and… clean up. You’ve still got blood on you.”
She looks down at the stained shirt and crimson specks all over her arms and chest like she’s seeing them for the first time. Her body goes unnaturally rigid, triggering every instinct inside me. I start toward her, then stop, unsure.
“Catriona?”
No answer. Her shoulders jerk with ragged inhales.
“Catriona?” I round the island, but she doesn’t seem to realize I’m there. It reminds me of the night we had dinner with her father and sister to organize the wedding. When we’d gone to the study after and she’d turned white in her seat—seemingly for no reason—and it was like she was somewhere else in her mind.
Carefully, I turn her to face me, but even though she’s looking at me, I don’t think she sees me at all. “C’mon,bhean chéile. Come back to me.”
Nothing.
I bite out rapid curses under my breath as I scoop her up into my arms and take the stairs two at a time. Bursting into our room, I cross blindly to the bathroom, where the shower takes too fucking long to heat. When it’s warm enough, I step us both under the spray. She clings to me—and that’s how I know something is terribly wrong. She’d never let me hold her like this if she were in her right mind.
Her body quakes, and she’s curled into a ball against my chest. I sit heavily on the bench inside the shower, holding her as close as possible. The water helps, I think, but what do I fucking know? I’m used to breaking bodies, not healing them.
The sight of the blood was what seemed to put her in this state, so I grit my teeth and maneuver her shirt up and off her shoulders. She’d probably skewer me if I tried to take off her bra, so I don’t. It’s not stained anyway. Then I pump a few squirts of soap into my hands and lather it over her skin.
By the time I have all the evidence of this afternoon erased from her, she’s breathing a little more easily. My hand keeps going back to her throat to feel the throb of life beneath her skin for reassurance. Her heart beats steadily under my palm. We’re both soaked through, but I barely notice. Seeing her react this way is like a knife between the ribs, snaking past the defense of bone to land a direct hit to my soft organs.
She gives a full-body shudder, and then she blinks rapidly, before tilting her head back. Her cheeks flood with color, and I let out a breath. Thank fuck, she’s coming back to me.
“There you are,” I murmur, resisting the urge to run my hands over her body to make sure she doesn’t have any injuries they missed.
“You really will do anything to get me out of my clothes,” she says in a voice so low, I can barely hear it over the shower spray.
“One thing about me is, I’ll always be an opportunist. Do you think you can stand?”
In answer, she pushes herself to her feet and only sways a little. “I can take it from here. Let me go.”
“Don’t—” I clear my throat when the word comes out ragged. “You can barely stand.”
That mask she wears when she feels vulnerable locks down her emotions. “I can take care of myself. Thanks, but no thanks.”
I leave her standing in the shower in her bra and jeans, my slacks and button-up dripping onto the tile, as I move to the attached walk-in closet to strip, dry off, and change into briefs. Leaving my wet clothes on a hook in the bathroom, I keep my eyes averted, no matter how much I want to see what’s behind the foggy glass.
Panic attacks.
She has panic attacks.
