Page 69 of The Kiss of Deception

I’m beyond grateful for the concern, but I’m not used to being fussed over. The line between feeling cared for and feeling suffocated is thin to someone who’s used to fending for herself.

After his goodbyes, Miles retraced his steps back to me. His fingers shot crimson warmth to my cheeks from my chin as he gently held it, checking scar and stitches, asking me questions I’d answered a thousand times before.

Yes, I’m okay.

No, I’m not in any pain.

His breath fanned my face, stoking the flames in my cheeks. He had done that so many times I’d memorized his touch. I memorized the small beauty mark under his right eye, hidden by dark lashes that framed his eyes. Unwavering, they saw more than I knew existed.

Once he was satisfied with my answers, he walked to the kitchen, washed his hands, and began cooking our dinner. Leaving me to sit with myself and breathe.

It’s foreign—to willingly place such trust in someone else. I swore to myself I would never allow anyone to manage my life. But Miles does it out of care for me—not to control me. Every step of the way, every small decision, he’s checked with me. He took the lead, yet I’m still in control.

And thus, we fell quickly, effortlessly, down this rabbit hole into a routine that feels entirely too comfortable.

Especially when it’s some ungodly hour in the morning and my brain refuses to settle down because he isn’t under the same roof tonight.

Miles is traveling with his team, playing—winning—an away game in Philadelphia, and I’m alone for the first time since I was attacked.

I feel disoriented with sleep, yet it refuses to claim me. The TV is on, a mute companion playing with the dark room, casting blinding white upon the walls at its whim. A quick click murmurs in the quiet, deafening when I realize it floats from the door.

In a heartbeat, the beat of my heart goes off in my chest, my breathing mimicking the tempo. My limbs, however, do not. They’re unmoving, frozen, rendered utterly useless. My knees curl to shield my chest, steeled by strength I never knew my arms possessed.

Distantly, I catalog the list of signs and symptoms of a panic attack, but I can’t stop it.

A voice screams at me to move, hide. Do something. But that thing in my chest is a giant wave breaking and pushing me down under an ocean where oxygen is absent and I can’t do anything but wait it out—until I can come up for breath.

In the darkness, I see a gray glint. I feel crimson stickiness coat my hands; a pungent metallic smell assaults my nose.

A movie I’ve seen before. Though, not really.

A different ending.

Paralyzed, the screams in my head whisper.

Run.

Hide.

Fight.

Breathe.

Breathe.

Warmth and gentle hands seep with the soft steady word, the soothing voice penetrating through the water in my ears, pulling me out from the depths of a dark sea.

“Breathe, Zoe. It’s okay. You’re okay. You’re safe, love.”

Calloused familiarity cradles my face, the rough pads of his thumbs brush my cheeks, again and again and again, a rope slowly rescuing me from the grasp of the demons in my head.

I peel my eyes open to find metallic gray staring at me.

The gray of my dreams and of my nightmares, but never of my terrors.

“I’m here. You’re safe. I’m here, love.” He glues his forehead to mine, eyes falling closed as he keeps stroking, repeating the words. Like a prayer, a mantra, as much for him as they’re for me. “Breathe. Just… breathe. You’re safe.”

I do. I breathe in as he breathes out and I breathe out as he breathes in. Until I can breathe again. Fresh air in my lungs. Tender hands slowing my heartbeat. Calming murmurs quieting my brain.

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