Page 70 of Too Safe

And I refuse to let Decker Crusade see me like that. I won’t throw away everything I’ve worked for over the last few years, including my solid grasp on reality, to bend to his will and appease this man.

But how the fuck am I supposed to explain conversion disorder to this heartless bastard?

“Josephine.”

Trying to calm my breathing and keep my cool, I reluctantly meet his gaze.

His eyes widen in surprise, but to his credit, he doesn’t look away. I’m sure he wasn’t expecting me to react this way. I wasn’t fucking expecting it, either.

“You’re freaking out right now. Talk to me.”

It’s not a request.

And yet… my mouth opens and closes twice in an attempt to reply. But no words come out. I gulp, then try in earnest to slow my racing thoughts.

If I don’t calm down, I’ll end up having an attack right now, triggered by the prospect of having an attack later. Anxiety. It’s the shittiest shit.

I mumble something that I hope sounds like “just give me a second” and close my eyes, resorting to a mindfulness exercise.

I inhale through my nose and hold it for four counts. Opening my eyes, I scan the room for something I can see: a pillow. I see a pillow. I exhale, blowing out for four counts.

With another long, deep breath, I focus on what I smell. Decker’s body wash. Sea salt and amber. Ocean air and summer nights. I smell Decker’s body wash.

Exhaling, I close my eyes and strain to hear something—anything—over the sound of my accelerated heartbeat whooshing in my ears. Music. Something low and melodic, folksy and soulful. Decker is playing music in the bathroom. The strum of a guitar and a male voice. I hear music.

There it is.

Calm washes over me. I’m okay.

Embarrassed by my reaction but decidedly more centered, I meet his gaze again.

“I can’t do it,” I say with as much steel in my voice as I can muster.

“Can’t do what?” he asks, running his thumb along his bottom lip, examining me.

Unable to maintain eye contact any longer, I hang my head. I’m about to reveal a vulnerability I don’t like sharing with the people I’m closest to, let alone a man who could damn well turn around and use it against me in harrowing, damaging ways.

I focus on the bed as I answer his question.

“I can’t sleep on the floor. I’m not trying to be difficult or dramatic. But I physicallycan’t. Something… something happened to me years ago. Now I have conversion disorder, which causes paralyzing panic attacks. If I panic for too long, I’m afraid I’ll slip away again. Please. Don’t ask me about it. I just need you to believe me. I’m… I’m begging you, Decker.”

After several seconds of silence, I peek up at him through my lashes, finding his onyx eyes locked on me with so much intensity it hits me like a physical blow, and I flinch.

“Please don’t make me sleep on the floor.”

I hate being at anyone’s mercy, but unless I’m honest with him, there’s no way I’ll get through this night.

Decker frowns at me, but for once, his dark eyes aren’t hard. Instead, his expression is stoic and thoughtful. I wish I could get a read on him. Though the disdain has dissipated, his eyes bore into me until I swear I can feel him under my skin. Whether he’s trying to intimidate or just figure out if I’m lying, it’s working. I’m totally and completely exposed in this moment.

Flustered, I look away first. What’s the point of staring him down? He knows the power he holds over me right now. There’s no sense in pretending otherwise.

When the silence continues to stretch, making my stomach sink with dread, I steal a glance in his direction. But he’s not there. He moved—and he’s coming right at me.

I stiffen when his fingers find my chin. Then I sink into the feel of his hand on my face when the tenderness of the gesture registers. His touch is gentle in the most unexpected way.

“Josephine,” he murmurs.

My eyes shutter closed from the gentleness in his voice. He’s said my name dozens of times in the last week. But never like this.

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