Page 139 of Morally Black Betrothal
It took me a few seconds to realize what was happening.
Big, intense, always-in-control Brendan Black was having a panic attack on the floor of his father’s house, just outside his own engagement party.
And I was the only person who knew.
I raced toward him, kicking off my stilettos and uncaring of the fine silk of my dress as I joined him on the cold marble. “Brendan.”
He jerked when I touched him. “Simone?”
I slipped one hand around his back and placed the other on his knee, urging him to lean into me. “It’s all right. I’m here.”
“Fuck—fuck.” He sounded like he was in pain, still gasping.
I rubbed his back, guiding him to put his head lower, more toward his knees. “Breathe, sweetie. In three counts, out for four. And again.”
“I—fuck—this family, thislife.”
“Don’t talk. Just breathe.”
He tried to follow my orders as I rubbed his back with one hand, helping him through the rhythms of box breaths, just like I’d seen the nurses do with patients panicking when they came out of surgery.
Then, all at once, he lugged me into his lap so I was straddling him just like I had in the back of his car. My dress ripped up one side, and the rest of it bunched around my thighs, but Brendan didn’t seem to notice. And honestly, neither did I.
His arms locked around my waist as he buried his face in my neck and hair and sucked in deep, long breaths. “Fuck,” he kept saying over and over again, even as his breath started to regulate. “Fuck.”
My fingers slipped into his hair, and I combed through it over and over, humming some nameless song my mother once sang to me when I was upset. Brendan wasn’t crying, but somehow this was more vulnerable. His arms were vises, his whole body a quivering mass of tension.
“It’s okay,” I told him. “It’s going to be okay.”
Several moments later, he exhaled one final breath, then managed to pull his head up and look at me. I brushed his hairoff his forehead, and with closed eyes, he pressed his face into my palm and sighed.
“It’s a contest.” His voice was quiet but trembling with emotion that I wouldn’t have recognized if not for the remnants of South Boston peeking through his normally polished cadence. “He’s throwing us all into an arena to fight it out.”
I nodded. “I heard.”
“How long were you listening?”
“Long enough.”
His eyes opened, pools of mournful green. Still brooding but oh so sad. My heart broke for him.
“It wasn’t supposed to be like this. I’ve been working so hard. So fuckin’ hard for so long.”
I pushed my hand through his hair again. “I know.”
“And my brothers. Maybe even Shea. They used to know what was going to happen. It was better for them that way. Everyone knew the pecking order. We all knew our places. Now we’re pit bulls in a ring, and he wants us to tear each other apart.”
My heart ached along with him.
“I don’t want to fight them anymore,” he admitted. “I don’t want to fight my family, Simone. I don’t want to be The Black Prince. I don’t want to be like my dad.”
“You’re not like him.”
“How could you possibly know that?”
I continued to finger-comb his hair. He seemed to like it when I did that. “This relationship might be an act, but…I meant what I said in front of your family. You’re a good person, Brendan. You deserve to be happy. Whatever that means.”
He blinked at me. “Do you know, you might be the first person who has ever said that to me?”
