Page 51 of Oathbreaker

“Princess,” he says. “You are mine forever.”

My eyes snap open as my constricted throat tries to pull in air.

I should be used to them by now. There hasn’t been a night that I haven’t had a nightmare in the month since my abduction.

Resentment and shame rushes through me. I should be able to get past this. I should be able to get back on track.

I’ve committed my life to healing trauma, and I know I can rationalize my way out of this. I am resilient.

If only it were that easy.

Step one: slow your breathing.

I focus on counting to eight as I inhale and exhale slowly. Breathing deeply still stings my ribs. One broke at some point while I was away, but the pain has lessened to the point where I only cry out when I sneeze or cough. I go slow with my breaths, both to calm my racing heart and assess the limits of my pain tolerance.

Step two: ground yourself.

I blink a few times and pick up on the things I can see.

Kitty in his bed. Sweater on the door. Curtains pulled across the window. Bed.

Step three: reset your brain.

The screen on my phone lights up from its face-down position on my side table. I know I shouldn’t use it this late because I’ll never get back to sleep, but I pick it up anyway.

A late-night reply email from Genevieve. One look at the subject line, which says, “Re: Continuing Therapy,” leaves a rock in my stomach.

I know better. I really do. I should be in therapy, working through this latest trauma with appropriate, evidence-based measures.

And yet, I can’t bring myself to go. I can’t bring myself to talk to Genevieve—to talk to anyone.

Talking about it makes it more real. I just want it to fade away.

Beneath the email are the three missed calls and five texts from Veronica. I ignored them when they came in, but I left the notifications on the lock screen. I don’t know why I didn’t swipe them away.

I get up from the bed and immediately slide my feet into my hard-soled, fuzzy slippers. It’s bitterly cold, as late January in northern Virginia always is, so I’m grateful for the thick fleece pajama set Hunter gifted me when I arrived at Amelia Manor. I pull the lined hood up, tugging the drawstring so that it’s tight around my face. Kitty lifts his head from the dog bed in the corner of my room.

“Sleep, Kitty,” I tell him. He cocks his head, staring me down. I sigh.

“All right, you can come if you want,” I tell him, leaving the room without waiting for him.

I walk to Hunter’s ginormous kitchen.

Filling the electric kettle by the stove, I take a packet of Sleepytime tea from the basket next to the tea station, grab a mug from the open shelving above the stove, and turn around, leaning on the counter to wait for the water to boil.

Running a hand down my face and back into my hair, I finally say, “You are safe.”

The clicking of Kitty’s paws on the marble floors gets me to look down at him as he tilts his head to the side. You good, babe? is what his expression says.

I pick him up and cradle him close to my chest. Rubbing his velvet-soft ears, I say, “I’m all good, lovebug.” He raises his nose to sniff at my neck and licks the side of my cheek.

The kettle clicks as the water hits a boil, so I set Kitty down and begin making my tea. After adding a few crystallized lemon packets and a heaping squeeze of honey to my mug, I shuffle over to the stool at the massive island. When I settle into the oversized high-backed chair, I kick off my slippers to fold one leg beneath me. I prop my other compression-wrapped leg on the opposite chair. Kitty trots off to explore but doesn’t go far from his kitchen dog bed.

Yes, Hunter put a dog bed in the kitchen. And one in each of the three living rooms, the game room, and his office.

I look at the kitchen clock. It’s three a.m. Fitting.

Adam is gone. I know he is gone, but it feels as if he will be with me forever.

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