“Cameras aren’t in yet either,” he says. “We’re on our own for now.”
“Perfect,” I say, the word about three octaves too high. I swallow. “I’m sorry. If I’d left five minutes earlier, you wouldn’t be stuck in here with me.”
“It’s fine,” he says. “There are worse people to be stuck with.”
Despite my sheer terror, heat brushes my cheeks. I’m suddenly, fiercely glad for the very dim light. “Thanks.”
His lips tip like he’s about to say something else, then he doesn’t.
The air feels different now that the first blush of panic has burned off. It’s still close, but I can hear the faint, uneven fan and the tiny tick of metal somewhere above us. My heartbeat isn’t in my ears anymore; it’s in my throat, annoying.
I will myself to relax. We’re already stuck in an elevator. The last thing he needs is a panicking woman on his hands.
In his hands.
I push the thought down. Could there possibly be a more inappropriate time for those thoughts?
“Okay,” I say, mostly to hear my own voice come out level. “What now?”
“Now,” he says, “we wait.”
“Wait?” My voice pitches higher again.
“There isn’t much else we can do,” he says. “I don’t have a signal. No cameras. No alerts. And I don’t think there’s anyone left in the building tonight.”
That didn’t help. “We wait until morning?” I squeak out. My breath starts hitching again.
“Hey.” His voice is low and easy. Like he’s trying to calm down a wounded animal. “Look at me.”
I drag my eyes off the doors and turn my head. He steps closer, slow enough I can track it, and sets his hands on my shoulders. Warm. Solid.
“Breathe with me,” he says. “In for four. Hold. Out for six.”
His thumbs rest just off my collarbones; his fingers curve easily around the tops of my arms. Heat spreads under his palms. I match his count. One… two… three… four. Hold. Out—two… three… four… five… six.
“Good,” he says, softer. “Again.”
I do it. The air goes in more easily. Out longer. His hands stay on me. I didn’t know how much I needed an anchor until now.
“That’s it,” he murmurs. “Again.”
I breathe. The urge to bolt eases because there’s nowhere to go. My shoulders drop a fraction under his palms. My throat isn’t so tight anymore.
“Better?” he asks.
“A little.” I hear my own voice and almost don’t recognize it. “Sorry. I… don’t like feeling trapped.”
“You’re not,” he says, and the certainty in it slides right into me. “This is a pause, not a trap.”
It’s a good line. I hang onto it. His hands are still on my shoulders. I’m aware of everything about them—the span, the heat, the way his right thumb almost, almost brushes my collarbone. I shouldn’t notice. I do.
He must realize he’s still holding me because he clears his throat and steps back.
My skin cools immediately.
Chapter Eight
Roberto
