I bang open the bathroom door, checking quickly to make sure it’s empty before stumbling toward the sink. The fluorescent lights hum overhead. Too bright. Too sharp. My head throbs. I twist the faucet on full blast and bend forward, shoving my head under the streaming water.
The water is ice cold. It’s a shock to my system, soaking my hair instantly before sliding to my face and neck as it runs down. It flows over my nose and lips. I gasp, sputtering, but I don’t pull away. The cold burns in a way that feels grounding,dragging me back into my body instead of floating off into whatever panic-fueled nightmare my brain is building.
For a few blessed seconds, all I can focus on is the sensation of roaring water in my ears and the sting against my skin. My lungs finally slow enough to pull in a real breath.
WhenIshutoffthetap,thesuddensilenceis deafening. Water drips from my chin onto the porcelain, my hands braced on either side of the sink as I try to steady myself. My reflection stares back at me with wide eyes. Hair is plastered to my cheeks as if I just crawled out of a pool.
“Here.”
I flinch, glancing sideways. Eric holds out a small handful of brown paper towels, his expression soft. I take them with a quiet murmur of thanks and start blotting my face, the rough paper scraping lightly over my skin.
“Want to tell me what this is all about?” he asks, gesturing vaguely at my wet head. “Or should I assume drowned rat is the new Sin City Chic?”
“Not really,” I mutter, voice low and hoarse.
He hums thoughtfully. “Well, babes, it’s either your hubby or me. You made him worry when you ran off like the big-titted blond in a horror movie. Consequences must be faced.” He leans back against the counter with his arms linked across his large barrel chest. “So, what’s it gonna be? You talking to me, or should I go grab him instead of sending him back to his hotel room?”
The thought of Aksel being confused and concerned about me has my chest tightening again.
“That look does nothing for you, by the way,” he addsbreezilyasheinspectshisnailslikemyimpending emotional collapse isn’t even mildly entertaining. They’re glossy andperfectly shaped. When did he even have the time to get them done?
“I’m not going back to my room yet,” I say, my voice trembling. Now that the panic is ebbing, the crash of adrenaline has left me spent. “I can’t handle being around him right now.”
Panic attacks have never been fun, but it’s been a while since the last one, and I hate how familiar the aftermath feels. I’m wrung out and shaky. My nerves scraped raw. I know myself too well. If I go back to my room, I’ll either sleep for twelve hours straight to avoid facing Aksel, or I’ll do something reckless.
Like crawl into Aksel’s arms and ask him to make me forget about everything for a while.
Am I making my own decisions, or is my omega tugging the reins? Is it fear dressed up as self-preservation? Am I doomed to repeat my parents’ mistakes? Losing myself the way my mother did, shrinking, adapting, and bending herself around an alpha the moment she became less important than the drugs he shot into his system.
I know Aksel cares now.
But how long does now last?
“Okay,” Eric says gently. “I can practically hear the gears grinding in your skull. We don’t have to go to your room.” He perks up slightly. “How about that all-you-can-eat seafood place we read about? That feels like a nice and aggressively touristy distraction from whatever you’re thinking about.”
He’s using hisI’m speaking to someone whose brain has temporarily left the buildingvoice, and honestly? I don’t mind. I need someone else to make decisions for me before I short-circuit completely.
So, I nod.
He takes that as permission to shepherd me out of the bathroom, through the lobby, and into a cab without another word. Everything is a blur until we’re seated at a massive buffet. The air thick with the smell of butter and garlic.
He lets me get away without speaking until we’ve both demolished our first plates of crab legs. The shells pile up, my fingers slick with melted butter, the lemon burning the micro cuts from cracking the crab open without a tool. When he returns with his second plate loaded down with lobster tails and scallops, he gestures at me lazily.
“Please,” he says flatly, “continue freaking out.”
That finally gets a small chuckle out of me. He shoves an entire lobster tail in his mouth like a feral raccoon, his cheeks bulging, and something in my chest loosens.
This is why I love him.
Even when I’m spiraling, he refuses to let me treat myself like a tragedy. He has a way of putting the world in a different perspective.
“Iwasn’t-,”Istart,buthisannoyedgroancutsme off.
“Donotlietomerightnow,HaleRongo Aka.Iam not in the mood.” He takes a deep breath, clearly centering himself. “Now. Tell Dr. Eric what’s wrong.”
“Damn, don’t government-name me,” I mutter. At his unwavering stare, I sigh. “I don’t even know why I freaked out exactly. It was just… everything. All at once.”
“Elaborate,” he says, licking butter from his fingers.
