Page 33 of Inked Adonis

Without taking his gaze off of me, Samuil holds out a hand to Rufus. “Sit.”

The traitor drops his ass to the ground instantly. If I wasn’t about to piss myself in terror, I’d be taking notes.

“Samuil? What’s?—”

“You’re coming with me.” In one fluid motion that speaks of way too much practice, he relieves me of both my phone and Rufus’s leash. He tucks the phone into his pocket while his other hand locks around my wrist.

Run,my brain screams.Fight. Scream. Do something.

Samuil is big, but we’re surrounded by witnesses. Bird nerds with their binoculars pointed skyward. LARPers swinging foam swords in the meadow like discount Knights of the Round Table.

Scream,that voice begs again.For God’s sake, scream.

But I can’t.

I’m fourteen again, frozen in place while my father’s rage fills every atom of air in the room. My body knows this dance.

Stay still. Stay quiet. Survive.

Samuil doesn’t even seem to notice as he drags me forward like I weigh nothing.

I trip along behind him, struggling to keep up with the pace he’s setting. He doesn’t look back. Doesn’t acknowledge my existence beyond the bruising grip on my wrist.

I want to breathe, but I can’t. We’re moving too fast. My head is too fuzzy. The world spins like a kaleidoscope of terror, all fractured light and twisted shadows.

I stumble over my own feet again, and a pathetic sob escapes my parched lips. Finally, Samuil peers back.

I know what he’s seeing. The same face I’ve seen in my bathroom mirror countless times.

Ashen face. Bloodless lips. Angry hives trailing my arms and neck.

His molten rage seems to thaw. Not enough for him to become the Samuil I thought I knew, but just enough that he changes course and leads me to a bench.

He forces me down into the seat and squats down in front of me. The hand he places on my thigh is surprisingly light.

“P-panic attack,” I croak. It’s the most he’s going to get from me right now. Honestly, it’s about three and a half more syllables than I thought I was capable of.

My heart is pounding so fast I’m positive it’s going to explode. I’ll die right here on this bench. They’ll name it after me, maybe. A nice little plaque to commemorate how I spontaneously combusted from trauma and pheromones.

“Breathe, Nova.” His hands work up and down my thighs, the steady rhythm at odds with the fury boiling in his eyes.

Slowly, I can feel my own skin again. I’m in my body—still sweat-damp and shaky, but here.

Samuil takes my hand and places it on Rufus’s neck. He forces my fingers through his soft fur until I’m able to do it myself.

“Look at the white spot on Rufus’s neck. Focus on it.”

It’s my favorite spot: a little heart-shaped patch of white fur.

So I focus on it.

And I’ll be damned: it helps.

Everything narrows to that one spot of white fur. My fingers trace its edges, counting the strokes, memorizing the shape. One... two... three... Until the static in my head quiets to a dull roar.

But peace is a luxury I apparently don’t deserve today.

Because the millisecond my breathing is approaching something close to normal, Samuil hauls me back to my feet and shepherds me towards the west side of Lincoln Park. At least he’s slowed his pace. I don’t have to trip over my feet trying to keep up, and I’m able to focus on my breathing. In and out, in and out. Easy as pie. It’s almost like I’ve been doing it my whole life or something.

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