Page 20 of Laced in Longing

James sits back on his heels, his expression shifting from confusion to disbelief to anger in rapid succession. “You’re kidding, right? After all that at the bar and bringing me all the way up here?”

My cheeks burn, but I hold my ground. “I made a mistake. I’m asking you to⁠—”

“A mistake,” he repeats, voice cold. “So, what was the plan? Get me all worked up, and then what? Get off on the power trip of saying no?”

“It’s not like that.” The protest is weak as I cover myself with the dress once more. “I thought I wanted this, but I don’t.”

He launches to his feet, looming over me with his shirt half-buttoned, hair mussed. I can’t meet his eyes. “You’re fucking with the wrong guy, you know that? I’m not some toy you can play with and throw away.”

A different kind of unease caresses my spine. I force myself to stand as well, creating distance between us. “I’m not playing games. I’m telling you I want you to leave. Now.” This time I do meet his eyes and, fuck, the intent in them scares me.

For a tense moment, I think he might refuse. Take what he thinks he’s earned before doing as I’ve asked. His hands clench, jaw working as if chewing through his options. Then he laughs, the sound empty of humor.

“You know what? Not worth it.” He buttons his shirt with jerky movements. “Crazy bitch probably would’ve stabbed me in my sleep anyway.”

The insult almost offends me, but more than anything I’m relieved. He’s leaving. That’s all that matters.

I say nothing as he straightens his clothes and grabs his coat from where it fell. After a brief pause at the door, he turns back with a sneer. “Get some fucking help,” he spits, then slams the door behind him hard enough to rattle the frame.

The moment he’s gone, my knees give out. I slide down the wall to the floor, a sob tearing from my throat before I can catch it. My hands shake violently as I try to tug the zipper of my dress back up, but my fingers won’t cooperate.

Wetness coats my bare thighs, and I realize I’m crying—heavy, wracking sobs that steal my breath. I want to scrub myself raw to erase the feeling of him.

I can’t breathe. Each inhale catches halfway, trapped behind a pressure that’s building in my chest, thick and sticky. The weight threatens to crush my sternum into my spine. My heart beats a frantic rhythm, a trapped bird seeking escape from a cage of bone and muscle.

My head spins—from the alcohol, from the panic, from the lack of oxygen making it to my brain. From my utter stupidity. I press my palms against my temples, squeezing as I attempt to steady the world that’s tilting beneath me, but the pressure only grows. Switching tactics, my hands flatten against my sternum, pushing back against the invisible force crushing me.

Nothing helps. Nothing stops the roaring in my ears or the tunnel vision creeping in from the edges. Or my brain’s certainty that I’m dying right here on my apartment floor in a bunched-up dress with mascara trailing down my face.

I had emergency medication once—for moments exactly like this, when the world collapses inward and my body forgets how to function. But I tossed the pills when I moved to Montréal, convinced I no longer needed them. That I was past these attacks that left me wrung out and hollow.

Stupid. So, fucking stupid.

I need something, anything, to anchor me, and remind me this isn’t a death-made cage, just my mind playing its cruelest trick. To tell me that oxygen still exists, that my lungs still work, and my heart won’t explode from the strain of beating too fast for too long.

A sound filters through the chaos—my name, whispered on an impossible current of air.

Maven.

Great. Now I’m hallucinating during a panic attack. New level of crazy, even for me.

I shake my head frantically, which only makes the dizziness worse. More wetness greets my thighs as tears continue to fall, hot against my chilled skin.

Maven.

This time, the whisper isn’t just heard but felt. I jolt upright, scrambling back against the wall, eyes wild as they search the space.

Not empty.

He sits cross-legged on the floor before me, the hem of his black coat pooling around him like spilled ink. The white fabric still obscures his face, and there’s the perfect stillness of his posture. But he seems almost relaxed…as if appearing in my apartment is the most natural thing in the world.

I freeze, tear-streaked and disheveled, staring at the figure before me. My heart still pounds, my breaths ragged, but now there’s a new element in the panic—something between terror and relief.

He’s here. He’s here and real. I’m not alone.

Or I’ve finally, completely lost my mind.

CHAPTER EIGHT