Page 98 of Only Mine
“You’re not eating,” he says, so low only I can hear.
The kitchen is a wall of noise and light behind us: the percussion of pans, the hiss of oil, and the overlapping, urgent language of a line under pressure.
I force myself to focus and be present, but the phone keeps going. My skin crawls with a familiar dread.
“Your phone’s having a party,” Ivy observes.
“It’s probably work.” I fish it out, planning to silence it, but the preview on the screen stops my blood.
Pink looks better than blue, but I miss watching you twist it around your finger when you...
No. No, no, no.
My vision starts to tunnel.
“Miss Wrenley?” Ivy’s voice sounds far away. “You look sick.”
I stand too fast. The chair tips. Saint pushes to his feet.
“Bathroom,” I croak out, already moving.
But my legs aren’t working right. The kitchen tilts. Too many faces, too many strangers, any one of them could behim.
I make it to the bathroom, barely. Lock the door. Slide down the wall.
My chest constricts. Can’t breathe. Can’t think. The walls are too close, and he’s out there somewhere, watching, waiting?—
I can’t get enough air. I press my face against my knees, palms over my ears, but the phone keeps vibrating, little seismic shudders against my thigh. I want to throw it, smash it, flush it, but my hands won’t unclench.
A knock on the door nearly stops my heart.
“Wrenley?”
Saint’s voice is muffled but unmistakable, deep and sharp with worry.
I want to answer, but my throat is a pinhole. The only sound I can make is a wheeze.
I scrunch my eyes shut and try to remember what my therapist said—slow inhale, hold, slow exhale—but the world narrows to buzzing and Saint’s voice and the memory of a stranger’s hands on my skin.
“Wrenley.” The knob rattles. “Say something.”
Nothing comes out of my throat, though I try. Not even a squeak. I can’t. I can’t move, can’t speak, can’t do anything but drown in the riptide of my panic.
“If you don’t answer, I’m coming in.”
Please, no.
I don’t want this. I don’t want to be the girl who needs rescuing. I don’t want to be a burden or a story or another fucking problem for him to solve. I want to get up, splash water on my face, and walk out like none of this ever happened.
There’s a pause, then a heavy thud. Then another. The hinges shudder, paint cracking at the seams.
“Chef, you can’t?—”
A woman’s voice from outside, maybe the server, maybe the manager.
“Move,” Saint orders. He doesn’t shout, but the force of it vibrates through the floor.
The door shudders in its frame, then bursts open with a splintering sound. Saint fills the doorway, wild and unholy and more terrifying than the demon he was accused of being by every critic who ever set foot in this kitchen.
