Page 8 of Under Fyre

But that’s not going to work. I need to fight the gray cloud that wants to suffocate my mind and leave me paralyzed.

“How?” My voice is hollow, but Fyre doesn’t seem to notice.

“I’m glad you asked.”

God, it’s so easy to forget that he’s a psychopath and not my caring art therapy teacher.

So. Fucking. Easy.

His dark, wavy hair. His penetratingly intense eyes. His shapely mouth. For once he’s not wearing a trench coat. It’s refreshing seeing him in something as domestic as a cable-knit sweater.

Dark colors suit his brooding nature.

“Do you remember when we spoke about exposure therapy?”

I shake my head without bothering to think back. It’s too easy to get lost in the foggy banks of my mind and end up somewhere Idon’twant to be.

“It’s a set of techniques that have been used successfully for years. They help reprocess the negative connotations associated with memories of your trauma.”

I frown at him, desperate for his words to make sense. It’s a feat, but eventually I give him a small nod. “Rewiring my brain or something, right?”

Itiscoming back to me.

As are other things he said to me. Things I now can’t get out of my head.

With time, you’ll learn to love me too.

My mind recoils at the thought that Fyre said those words to me…and yet here I am—trapped in his fucking house.

“Crude, but accurate.” Fyre favors me with a small smile. “Now, ordinarily, this would be a straightforward process…but we have a problem, don’t we?”

I wait, silent. There’s no way I can try and anticipate him. He’s a thousand times more intelligent than me. A billion times more savage.

“A key factor for exposure therapy is working through memories of your trauma…and you don’t seem to recall much of your time with Peter, do you?”

Shock flashes painfully hot through me, searing my cheeks and clamping closed my lungs. “M-My…time with…?”

The room tilts.

Food pushes up my throat. I’m dimly aware of Fyre leaping to his feet, and then he’s gone.

Probably worried I’m going to puke on him. I’d be laughing if I wasn’t so busy trying to swallow down the bile rushing into my mouth.

But I lose the fight.

Thankfully, when I bend forward to empty my stomach onto the floor, there’s a yellow bucket in the way.

I vomit noisily into it, my stomach contracting so painfully that I’m moaning through every retch. Cool hands brush the sides of my face, holding my hair, stroking the back of my neck.

“Here, drink some water,” Fyre says when the retching finally stops.

He’s holding out a bottle. I take it, my hand shaking when I try to bring it to my mouth. But this time, Fyre doesn’t help me.

“Such visceral reactions are not uncommon in someone with severe trauma,” Fyre says.

I wish he’d stop talking.

I wish he’d just let me go. I could go back to my apartment and refill my prescription—the original one that sent me to a black, dreamless void every night. The one that numbed everything I’m starting to feel again.

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