I’m silent. Clem presses, “Was it—wolves?”
I can’t lie, not with her green gaze on me. “Yeah, it was.”
“Iknewit, I just knew it,” she says, her voice rising. “Which means they’re not a safe species for Sammy to be staying with.”
“What happened to Jax is…” I pause, “complicated.”
She lets out a little growl of frustration. “Why won’t anyone tell me the whole story?”
Anger flares inside me at the way Jax has handled this. He’s brought Clem here, thrust her into a whole new life, and he’s still not told her about his trauma. I can understand why he’s reluctant, but it’s unfair to his sister to keep it from her.
“Clem,” I say gently, “it’s not my place to tell you the details, Jax needs to. I will ask him to talk to you,” I say quietly. “As a matter of urgency.”
She stares at me, eyes cloudy. “Thank you.” She sighs heavily.
Her hands shake as she picks up our plates and heads over to the sink. She turns on the tap, full blast. Soon she’s washing up, clunking pots and pans onto the drying rack. I watch her as I gather the rest of the dishes. Her shoulders are up around her ears, her spine rigid. When I amble over, she turns and grabs a dish from me. Somehow it misses her hand and falls between us, smashing on the ground.
“Oh—” she whimpers and drops to her knees to gather the shards. Suddenly, she lets out an expletive. Already, drops of blood are dripping onto the flagstone floor. She puts her finger in her mouth.
I crouch down next to her. “Here, let me look.”
I take her hand gently away from her mouth and survey her finger as more blood oozes out.
“I’ll get a plaster.” I stride over to the cupboard and bring out my extensive first-aid kit, take her hand and plaster up her finger, aware of her nearness, the sweet scent of her.
She’s started to shake like a leaf, and my heart drops.
“I—I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” she gasps, gripping at the front of her shirt. “I can’t breathe properly, and my chest is really tight. And oh—I feel terrible.”
She lets out a hiccupping little sob, and I grab a chair and gently guide her into it. She huddles there, a shuddering, weeping little human who I desperately want to comfort. “Clem, I think you may have Labyrinth overwhelm,” I say gently.
“No, I haven’t,” she sobs. “I-I’m fine.”
I can’t help rumbling out a laugh at her stubborn denial. “You’re not fine.”
“Am so.” She pouts, even as tears continue to stream down her cheeks.
A minute passes and the sobbing doesn’t abate, nor does the shaking.
I need to help her through this, but how?
I remember Arlo told me that when Sammy got Labyrinth overwhelm, he hugged her until she stopped shaking.
That’s all very well, but they were in a relationship at the time.
What if Clem misunderstands my intentions?
I stay crouched on the ground, my huge thighs sandwiching the chair, trying not to appear overbearing. I keep my arms at my sides, even though they yearn to envelop her.
“Clem,” I say quietly. She lets out another whimper.
“Clem,” I repeat more firmly. “Your body has gone into a state of shock.”
I hadn’t expected this, to be honest—she’d seemed so competent and confident. Now a slug of remorse hits me. How had I thought it was a good idea to take her to the Vault on her first day here? Especially after hearing about Sammy going to live with wolves. And her worries about Jax being confirmed.
Dumb assed orc that I am.
Mind you, the octomopede episode last night should have warned me she was vulnerable.
