Page 10 of Painted Scars
Oh, fuck. I’m having a panic attack.
Fireworks explode overhead, and my body flinches. I claw at my tightening throat and stumble into something, fumbling for purchase.
Gloved hands close around my arms, steadying me. My chest seizes at the sharp heat of cinnamon. The helmeted biker is back. Blackthorn is sending me a message. I brace for the cold press of a gun to my back. For being dragged into a shadowed corner. For the taunting of what they’ll take this time.
“Easy there, I’ve got you,” a muffled voice filters through the helmet.
My brain scrambles for an escape, and I fight his hold.
“Don’t move,” he says firmly, fingers tightening just enough to keep me grounded. “You’re dizzy and will stumble.”
His voice is low and calm. His grip is careful, not cruel.
Blackthorn’s men operate by breaking someone. They don’t catch and comfort you. Which makes it worse, because I don’t know what he wants.
“Who… who are you?” I twist to look and catch the dark visor.
The man pulls me gently closer to his hard chest, and suddenly I’m caught somewhere between a fantasy and a panic attack. “You’re safe. Focus on your breathing.”
Safe? With a stranger pinning me? I try to shift, but my head spins, the ground teetering underfoot.
“What can you control?” Lord, his voice is smoke and gravel.
Control? My mind flips through therapy notes. It also registers that Blackthorn’s men don’t talk my anxiety down.
“My breathing,” I whisper, focusing on one thing at a time. Uncovering this man can come later.
“Good.” His thumb strokes a slow, reassuring line down my arm that elicits tingles. “What else can you focus on?”
I breathe him in. Smoky spices that smell like comfort, not danger.
Why am I leaning into him when I know better? My pulse skips a confused beat.
His hand shifts to the back of my head, fingers weaving through my hair, the tenderness of his gesture unraveling something in me.
“My sight,” I answer, locking onto a glowing stall sign ahead.
“Excellent. What else, sweetheart?” I like the way that sounds. Rough. Warm. Laced with danger.
“Umm… the sounds and smells.” I strain to recall his grounding questions.
“What do you hear?” He brushes my hair again.
“You,” I tell him.
His low chuckle flutters in my stomach like a rogue firework. “What else?”
I force myself to listen when all I want to hear is him. “The bells, flutes, and sizzling noodles.” I stop short of saying, “Your voice.”
“Very good.” Another soft brush to my arm. “What can you smell?”
I take a long breath to filter all the scents beyond him. “Ginger, soy sauce, aniseed… and mooncakes?”
“You want one?” the man asks.
I nod, slightly dazed, and he buys one. The vendor hands it to me with a kind smile.
“Thank you.” I turn to thank the biker behind me, hovering like a protective shadow.
