“Just fucking pull over,” I bark.
Wes hits the brakes, jerking the wheel and veering onto the gravel shoulder of the road. He rolls to a stop before throwing the gear into park and clicking the child locks off.
Ava throws her door open and stumbles from the back seat before the engine has even fully settled.
Through the side mirror, I watch her pace a few unsteady steps behind the Escalade before folding forward at the waist, bracing her hands on her knees like she’s about to throw up. Her shoulders heave with each desperate breath, hair hanging down over her face like a dark waterfall.
Wes jumps out of the vehicle, rushing toward Ava with a quiet stream of reassurance, but I’m willing to bet she doesn’t hear a word of it. She’s already gone, lost to whatever hell her mind’s locked in.
I lean back in my seat and close my eyes for a moment, drawing in a slow breath through my nose. She’s being dramatic as fuck. And even so, the sight of it dredges up unpleasant memories of what it feels like to drown in your own head, to struggle for air, to have the world close in tighter and tighter until there’s only a pinpoint of light left.
I know that feeling. Intimately.
The anger doesn’t disappear. Instead, it rearranges itself, going from hot and wild to something cold and controlled. Something useful.
I unclip my seatbelt, shove the passenger door open, and stalk around the back of the Escalade.
Wes has one hand on Ava’s back now, rubbing slow circles while he murmurs reassurances, but it isn’t doing a damn thing. Her breathing is still coming in short, frantic bursts, tremors racking her delicate frame.
“Move,” I growl at Wes.
He knows better than to argue, stepping aside without a word.
I drop to a crouch in front of Ava and take her face in my hands, forcing her to lift her head and meet my eyes. Her skin is hot beneath my palms, her pulse racing wildly under my fingers.
“Breathe,” I command, voice low and even.
She shakes her head, squeezing her eyes shut as she tries to drag air into lungs that won’t cooperate.
I press my thumbs against her cheeks, hard enough to hurt. “Ava. Look at me.”
Her eyes snap open, pupils blown wide, lips trembling.
“Good,” I murmur. “Now breathe with me.” I draw in a slow, deliberate inhale, exaggerating the motion so she can mimic it.
For a moment she struggles, her breaths still coming in sharp little gasps. Then, little by little, her chest starts to follow the rhythm I set, the frantic pace slowing.
“Breathe,” I tell her again, holding her gaze. “You’re in control.”
I’m not sure whether I’m saying it for her or me, but the shadows fade as I stare into her eyes and guide her back from the edge.
The trembling in her shoulders eases after a few more cycles. Her hands slip from her knees, fingers uncurling one by one.
When color starts to return to her face and her breathing finally steadies, I release her.
“You good?” I ask gruffly.
She nods mutely.
“Ready to get back in the car?”
Another nod.
I push to my feet, stepping back to give her space so she can rise to her full height. She looks up at me, brown eyes wide with gratitude, breathing finally under control.
I force myself to turn away, stalking back around to my side of the Escalade and leaving Wes to guide her back to the rear door. As I slide into the passenger seat again, I feel the last remnants of the shadows recede, an odd sort of calm washing over me.
By the time Wes climbs back behind the wheel and cranks the engine, the moment is already buried where it belongs. Whatever just happened out there on the side of the road means nothing. It was damage control. Nothing more.
