Page 141 of Oathbreaker

But the truth is, it was a terrible decision. Here I am again, letting my anxiety control my actions.

Give yourself grace.

Genevieve called Dr. Greene, and we all talked for a little while about medication management and sending me to a high-risk obstetrician with my past birth history. But first, Dr. Greene wanted to verify the pregnancy tomorrow to make sure everything was growing properly.

That sent me into another spiral.

What if something is wrong? ran through my brain over and over and over. I’m so grateful Genevieve was there to help talk me through the obsessive thoughts.

“I’m nuts,” I said to Genevieve. She smiled at me and said, “No, you’re not. You are a person who experienced several hugely traumatic events—events that altered the biochemistry of your brain. You have challenges, but you are not ‘nuts,’ Winter. And guess what? You’ve got control of your health before. You will do it again.”

I’ve done it before. I’ll do it again.

I close my eyes and rest my head against the edge of the tub. I must have dozed off because the next thing I know, Hunter rubs my face, and the water has cooled considerably.

“The food is here, baby,” he says.

He helps me out of the tub, wrapping me in a fluffy towel that smells freshly laundered. My robe, also fresh, hangs on the back of the door.

I put it on and walk out to the kitchen. When the smell of fajita meat and spices hits my nose, I stop myself from running to the kitchen island.

He’d opened the boxes and tore the paper bag with the hot tortilla chips open.

I don’t acknowledge him as I scarf down half of the quesadilla in less than five minutes.

When I finally look up to him, I cast my eyes back down quickly.

“Sorry,” I say.

“For what?”

“For eating like an animal,” I reply.

“Stop,” he barks. My head snaps up in his direction, and I see his face is serious. “Don’t talk about yourself like that. You’ve starved yourself for most of today, and it’s—” he looks at his watch “four p.m. now. You need to eat. Your body knows what it needs.”

I hum in acknowledgment of his words. I’m hyper-critical of myself right now. It’s a learned act, a default following such an anxiety-riddled day, so I absorb his words and take them to heart.

Once I’m full and sure my food will not reappear, I clean up the kitchen. Hunter wanders over to the window, and when I look at him after I’m finished, I’m slightly bewildered to see that he’s stripped down to his boxers and sits on the oversized meditation pillow.

“H?” I say, confused.

“Hm?” he says, throwing the sound over his shoulder.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m meditating.” He gives me an amused look. “Want to join me?”

I look at the pillow. “There’s not exactly a lot of space, H.”

“There’s plenty of space,” he says.

He pulls me down to sit in front of him between his spread legs. I butterfly mine, arranging my robe so I’m not flashing the world.

Then I examine the glass, noticing the windows are darker than I remember. At the top of the panes, there’s a mechanical-looking track. Blinds?

“I wanted to make sure the glass wasn’t see-through from the outside,” he says. “And that sun is disrespectful in the morning, so I added shades.”

He did all this in case I came back, even though he wanted me to stay.

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