Page 16 of The Preacher's Pet

I jerk away and glance around, already searching for a new escape route.

He holds up both hands as though trying to steady a skittish horse.

“I’m not chasing you,” he says, “I promise. I just wanted to check you were all right.”

He’d tried to help me inside the classroom. He looks scary, but I’ve learned looks can be deceiving. Some of the worst people I’ve ever met have appeared completely harmless on the outside.

I open my mouth to reply, but I can’t catch my breath. A tight band has wound its way around my ribcage, compressing my lungs. No matter how much I try to draw in air, the band only seems to get tighter.

A strange sound escapes my throat, and the man’s brow furrows in concern. My eyes fill with tears, and his face blurs. It’s a handsome face, too, despite all the makeup and tattoos. His eyes are deep brown and intense, his lips full, his cheekbones defined.

This isn’t going to work. I’ll never be like one of these other students, not giving a second thought to doing something as simple as sitting in a classroom. I’m going to be forever trapped by what happened to me, never able to move on. It doesn’t matter where my parents send me, or who I end up being around, I’ll never be free.

I’m completely overwhelmed, and I want to keep running, but I can’t. I don’t have strength in my legs, or enough oxygen in my lungs. All I can focus on is not being able to breathe, and the panic that’s taking over me. I can’t think straight, and I clutch at my throat. I’m awash with heat, sweat prickling my upper lip and brow. My heart pounds so fast, I’m sure it’s goingto explode. There’s a terrible pressure inside my skull, and I’m convinced I’m going to suffer from a brain aneurysm right here and now.

My legs turn to jelly, and I fall to my knees, head hanging down.

I sense a person next to me and lift my head to look. To my surprise, the man with the black eyeliner joins me on the ground. He’s kneeling, too, and he locks his brown gaze on mine.

“Ophelia, you’re having a panic attack. I’m going to take your hands. Is that okay?”

I give a tiny nod. He might scare me, but I need something—or someone—to hold on to. Some way of grounding myself or else I’m going to fall off this mortal plane forever.

The moment his hands touch mine, I don’t feel as scared of him. His touch is warm and dry and firm. I cling to his fingers, squeezing them tightly.

“Breathe,” he says, “slowly, in and out, like this.”

He slows his breath, deliberately inhaling and exhaling at length. I try to follow him, but the band around my chest refuses to release.

“I-I can’t,” I squeak.

“You, you can. You are not going to die, even if it feels like it. This will pass. It will end.” He squeezes my hands. “You need to breathe out first. You’re hyperventilating, and your lungs are full, but it feels like you need to suck in air. You don’t. Push it out first.”

I try to blow out some air but panic more. My vision is speckled and dancing with white dots.

“Just a tiny bit,” he says. He makes a blowing sound as he pushes out a long, slow breath.

I copy him and manage to push some air out.

I realize the band has loosened a little. I’m able to suck in a ragged breath. Oh blessed, sweet relief. It’s the most wonderful moment, like the first sip of water when you’re dying of thirst.

He smiles at me.

“That’s right. You’re doing great. Breathe with me. Follow the rise and fall of my chest.”

I’m able to concentrate on him now. His chest is hidden beneath his black t-shirt, but I can see the motion of the material. My breathing is still ragged and I let out little squeaks and whimpers. Tears pool in the corners of my eyes and, when I blink, they spill down my cheeks. He notices and squeezes my hands harder.

I don’t know what I’ve done for him to be so kind to me. He doesn’t even know me. I don’t deserve his attention at all. It’s not something I’ll ever be able to repay.

He pulls me in closer, and I cling to him, riding the wave of panic I’m being carried on, waiting for it to wash me to shore. He edges closer too, until our knees touch, our hands are clutched between our bodies, and our foreheads press together. I’m unused to being so close to a man, but somehow, this doesn’t feel strange, or wrong, the way I was always told physical contact with men was. Maybe it’s because I’m more focused on not dying than I am at his proximity.

“You just have to get control of your breathing,” he encourages, “and I know you can do it.”

I don’t understand why he has any faith in me. I don’t have any in myself. I don’t even know his name, though he knows mine. Cain must have told him.

At the thought of Cain, I’m reminded of my childhood. I’m reminded of the girl I once was, before all this terrible stuff happened to me. I think of tall grass and trickling streams and lying on my back in the sunshine and letting it warm my skin. The memories have been unlocked since I saw Cain, and nowthey’re rushing to the surface like lava in a volcano. I think that’s partly what’s causing me to be so emotional at the moment. Still, these particular memories are good, happy. I let them fill me, until I can feel the sun on my skin, as if I’m a kid again, just happy and innocent.

Finally, I discover I’m able to breathe normally again, and I let out a huge rush of air from my lungs, my shoulders dropping. My hair hangs around my face, and the man in front of me straightens slightly, then lifts his hand to tuck a lock of my hair behind my ear.

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