Something has shifted between us.
I felt it in that bathroom, in the way Emma looked at me without hatred.
I meant it when I said I don’t hate her.
This is getting complicated.
And I have no fucking idea what I’m going to do about it.
8
EMMA
The eggs are getting cold. The toast is probably soggy by now.
The fruit looks perfect and untouched, and I know I should eat it because refusing food doesn’t accomplish anything except making me weak and dizzy, but my stomach is twisted in knots that have nothing to do with hunger.
I had a panic attack last night.
Just thinking about it makes my cheeks burn with embarrassment and my chest tight with the memory of not being able to breathe, not being able to control my own body as it spiraled into terror.
I haven’t had one in almost a year. I thought I had them under control, thanks to the breathing exercises and the coping mechanisms my therapist taught me.
But apparently being kidnapped and held prisoner and having your father’s rescue attempt fail spectacularly in a hail of gunfire is enough to trigger all those old patterns I worked so hard to break.
The panic had come out of nowhere.
One minute I was getting ready to take a bath, trying not to think about the fact that I’d been here a week and my mother probably thought I was dead.
And the next minute my chest was tight and I couldn’t breathe and the walls were closing in and I was on the floor hyperventilating like my body had forgotten how to function.
I hate that it happened. I hate that I’m still vulnerable to them, capable of falling apart like that, when I’ve spent so much energy trying to be strong, trying to refuse to be a victim.
But what I hate even more—what’s making my stomach twist and my face flush—is that Leo saw it.
Leo Santoro, the man who kidnapped me, the man I’m supposed to hate with every fiber of my being, found me curled up on the bathroom floor gasping for air like a dying fish.
He witnessed me at my most vulnerable moment.
And he was…kind.
That’s the part I can’t stop thinking about, the part that’s driving me crazy more than anything else about this entire situation.
Leo was kind.
He was gentle.
He talked me through the panic attack with this patient, steady voice that reminded me of my therapist.
He knew exactly what to do, exactly what to say, like he’d done it before.
And he asked permission before he touched me.
I look down at my hands, spreading my fingers on the table, and I can still feel the weight of his hand over mine, how his palm completely engulfed mine, the warmth of his skin against my cold, clammy fingers.
The way his thumb moved in these small circles across my knuckles, grounding me, anchoring me to reality when my brain was convinced I was dying.
I twist my fingers together, trying to make the phantom sensation go away.