Page 17 of Unbind

Her face contorts as if the significance of my oath is too painful for her to handle. ‘Fine,’ she says finally. ‘But only if Nat agrees. I’m not letting you steamroll her, okay?’

10

NATALIE

The Devil himself is sitting right next to me, and he’s crying. Actual tears are streaming down his face.

Whatever. I don’t have the energy to care. I just feel… ugh.Horrific. Sick and shaky and fuckingwipedlike I’ve just run a marathon, my hands still trembling.

He’s holding my hand. Oh my God. I tug it away as hard as I can, and he releases it. It’s all sticky. I plonk my elbows on my thighs and bury my face in both my hands, the cloying smell of orange juice hitting me. I just want to curl up into a ball somewhere dark and die. I don’t want to be here in this fancy room with Gen andhimwhile I’m in this state.

The tears spill over into my hands, and I want to wail at the absolute misery and unfairness of it all. I’ve had way worse hypo episodes than this, but it’s still beyond shitty. I cry harder. Gen’s talking, and I think she says my name, but I honestly can’t make any sense of it.

Then he speaks. ‘Hey. It’s okay. You’re okay.’ I understand that part, and I understand that he’s shifting beside me andtipping me forward so he can wrap a strong arm around me and tug me against his hard body.

I should elbow him in the ribs, but I’m too tired. I should be horrified that I’ve let him get this close, but there’s no room in my broken body for that. There’s only room for exhaustion, and for the extreme mortification that’s creeping over me at the realisation of what’s just gone down.

I’ve just had the most vulnerable experience it’s possible for me to have. If I’d got naked and danced on the table it would have been less humiliating. Nothing else can top that.

Besides, his voice is nice and calm and authoritative. Like, if he says it’s so, it is. If he says I’m okay, I am. And the arm banded around me feels nice, too. Safe. Strong.

One of the absolute hardest things to accept about type 1 is the extreme vulnerability it forces you to endure, often in very public places, and often in front of total strangers. It’s the worst, especially for someone like me, Little Miss Perfect, who always wants to look like she’s got her shit together and never wants to impose on anyone.

Believe me, the strangers I’ve imposed on… the poor, unsuspecting people I’ve collapsed on and drooled on and flashed my panties at and scared the shit out of.

But nothing beats this. This is theworst.An episode in front ofthisguy, when I planned on playing the role of impenetrable ice queen today? It’s a fucking joke.

I sob harder. I can’t stop. After every hypo, I just want my mum. I want to be babied. It’s so bloody miserable.

‘Hey,’ he says again. ‘Natalie.’ He holds me more tightly against him. ‘It’s over. You did great. We just need to get more juice down you, okay? Your glucose is above four now. We’re getting there.’

‘You’re in good hands with Adam,’ Gen says, her voice coming closer. ‘He knows what he’s doing.’

Abdicating responsibility is easy right now. If someone wants to adult for a few minutes, to monitor my levels and feed me juice like I’m three years old, then I’ll let them. Gladly. I’m too drained to argue.

I remove my face from my hands. My cheeks are wet, and I can’t look at him or Gen quite yet. Instead I look at the coffee table, at the box of tissues and the glass of orange juice, its sides all smeary. To my right, his thighs.Brioni, I think. I nod my acquiescence, my head still bowed.

‘Good girl,’ Adam says. He keeps me in a tight grip while he reaches forward and pulls out several tissues. I raise a hand halfheartedly to take them, but he tuts. ‘Let me. Lift your head.’

I do as he says, but I let my eyes drift closed. If I don’t have to see it, it’s not real, right? He wipes gently over both my cheeks, a little harder under my eyes, and then wipes over my mouth before dumping them and pulling out a fresh tissue, which he holds to my nose.

‘Blow.’

Oh, the indignity. I do as he says, and lots of snot comes out. That feels better.

‘Excellent,’ he says. Now that my nose is clearer, I can smell him. He smells amazing, in a hard-to-define way. Like, if I went into Harrods and made a mix of all their nicest aftershaves. Kind of how their perfume hall smells, but the male version. I’m fucking exhausted. I let my head sag right back till it hits the cushions, though it’s not very comfortable with his arm around me.

‘Lemme go,’ I slur, my bottom lip trembling.

‘Nope. Not till you’ve had more juice. Tell me when you’re feeling up to chewing your Snickers.’

‘Mmm.’ Snickers. God, I know just how well that’ll hit the spot—I just need to work up to the effort of actuallyingesting it. I open my eyes and stare at the ceiling. The chandelier twinkles prettily at me. It’s like something out of a fairytale. A Cinderella chandelier.

‘Come on. Juice time,’ he says, hoisting me upwards with the arm still banded around me. I want to tell him to fuck off, but I know he’s right about the juice.

He brushes my hair off my face before holding the juice glass up to my mouth and letting me drink. I take a big gulp and then another. I haven’t looked either of them in the eye yet since that first glance at him. I’m always hyper-vulnerable after an attack, and eye-contact is a step too far. I detest seeing that look of pity and fear in the eyes of someone who’s witnessed it; I can’t stand knowing the state they’ve seen me in. That they’ll probably never un-see it. That they’ll think of it every time they look at me.

‘Snickers,’ I tell him, pushing the glass away. I can feel my glucose beginning to stabilise, but the hangover isn’t going anywhere.

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