Protect her,the voice says.Protect her.
So I do my best.
I lead Yara out of the room and down the remainder of the hallway, over to a window seat at the end of it. She sits down heavily, like her legs can’t hold her anymore. Her arms come around her stomach and she hunches over, her gaze fixed on the floor. Her breaths are still too fast, and I can see her pulse leaping at the base of her throat.
“Yara,” I say, keeping my voice low and soothing, like the counselor I saw years ago used to do. “You’re okay. You’re safe. No one can hurt you. I promise.”
She gives a jerky nod. “I know.”
“Try to take longer breaths,” I suggest. “In for five, hold for five, out for five, hold for five. Keep doing it until your breathing slows.”
Yara shudders. “I know.”
I touch her arm. It’s covered in goosebumps. “Of course you do. But just try it for now, okay? I’ll do it with you.”
For a second, I think she’s going to resist. But then she takes a deep breath. Holds it. Lets it out.
As we breathe together, Yara shifts closer to me, until our legs are touching. She doesn’t pull her arm away from my hand, so I rub her chilled skin, trying to warm it. Gradually, her breathing slows. Her muscles relax. The tight set of her shoulders eases.
While I’m glad to see her panic attack fading, it doesn’t do anything to help the guilt weighing heavily on me.
I should have insisted on following her right away. I should never have let her leave with Winthrop, regardless of how skilled Yara is.
“I’m sorry,” I tell her quietly. “I shouldn’t have waited. It’s my fault?—”
Yara’s head jerks up. “What?” She sounds much more alert. More in control. “How is it your fault?”
“You asked for backup. And I waited too long.”
“It wasn’t your fault,” she replies after a brief hesitation. “It was mine. I was so determined… I wanted to do it myself.”
“Do what yourself?”
Her green-gold eyes meet mine. “I saw him drugging my wine. And I decided to play his game. Get the evidence of what he was trying to do and stop him. Show him that I wasn’t somehelpless woman—” Yara grimaces. “But I panicked. Froze up. I couldn’t… The only thing that snapped me out of it was when he touched me. Then… instinct took over, and I punched him.”
I’m torn between horror and admiration.
“Did it trigger you?” I ask. “Him touching you? Was that it?”
It makes me feel sick to think about it, but it’s the best explanation I can come up with for her panic attack. Three years ago, Yara was held hostage in Iran for several months, and while I don’t know the details of her captivity, I know enough about what happened to other women to suspect the extent of her trauma.
Shit, I know she has nightmares. Or she did a year ago, when we stayed at her place. That’s how Yara and I ended up watching TV at night together, taking comfort in each other’s company when our nightmares kept us awake.
Fuck.
Looking into Yara’s tortured gaze, I’m struck by the wildest urge to pull her into my arms. Shield her from all the fucking pricks of the world who would even darethinkto hurt her.
“It wasn’t that,” she says softly. “That’s not what triggered me. But it doesn’t matter. I screwed it up. I made a stupid decision and now…”
My heart twists. “No. You didn’t screw anything up.”
“I did. I froze up. I let him get the upper hand.”
“That’s not your fault. If he touched you?—”
Yara shakes her head. “No. It wasn’t that. I didn’t like him touching me, but that’s not what—” She stops. Grimaces. “Anyway. You shouldn’t apologize. It was my fault. Not yours.”
“What was it, then?”
