Page 59 of Blindsided
“Kori?” I move toward her, alarmed by the blue tinge forming around her lips. “Kori, what’s happening?”
She can’t answer, can only gasp for air that doesn’t seem to be reaching her lungs. Her hands clutch at her throat, and I realize with horror that this is more than shock—she’s having a full-blown panic attack, possibly compounded by her asthma.
“Your inhaler—where is it?” I ask urgently, but she shakes her head, her eyes wild with fear.
Shit. We’re nowhere near a hospital, and I have no idea how to handle this. Acting on instinct, I grab her by the shoulders, forcing her to look at me instead of the skeleton.
“Breathe, A stór. Look at me and breathe,” I urge, the Gaelic endearment slipping out as if I called her that every day.
Her eyes find mine, but her breathing doesn’t slow. If anything, it’s getting worse; her gasps are becoming more desperate. This isn’t working.
“I got you.” I pick her up in my arms and head back to the stairs. I brush my lips against her forehead as I murmur, “Let’s get you out of here.”
I climb as quickly as I can, finally emerging into the great hall where the air is fresher. But she’s still struggling, her face now alarmingly pale. Without hesitation, I head outside, where night has entirely fallen and a light mist has begun to fall.
The cool, damp air should help, but she’s too far gone in her panic. Desperate, I do the only thing I can think of—I sit down on the wet grass in front of the castle and lie down, pulling her down with me.
“Feel me breathing,” I instruct, exaggerating my own breath. “In and out. Slow and steady. You’re safe, A stór. I’ve got you.”
I rub circles on her back as a gentle rain begins to fall, soaking our clothes and hair. Gradually, painfully, her breathing starts to sync with mine. The desperate gasps give way to deeper, more controlled inhalations.
“That’s it,” I encourage, continuing to stroke her back. “Just like that. You’re doing great.”
We lie there for what feels like hours but is probably only minutes, the gentle rain washing over us as her body relaxes by degrees against mine.
Finally, she shifts slightly, turning her head to look at me. I aim the flashlight at her face and see that her color is better, though her eyes still hold remnants of fear.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers.
“Don’t be,” I say firmly. “Are you okay? Was it yourasthma?”
She shakes her head. “No, it wasn’t my asthma. I just panicked when I saw the body.” Then she asks, “What does that mean? What you called me—A stór?”
I feel heat rise to my cheeks, suddenly self-conscious. “It’s Gaelic. My mother used to say it when I was upset.”
“But what does it mean?” she presses, still making no move to get up.
I hesitate, then say, “It means ‘my treasure.’”
Her eyes widen slightly, and I rush to explain, “It’s just an expression, you know? Like ‘honey’ or ‘sweetheart.’ It doesn’t—”
“Thank you,” she interrupts softly. “For helping me. And for the treasure thing.”
We stare at each other, rain misting between us, and something shifts in my chest—something warm, something that has everything to do with this woman before me.
I don’t know who moves first. One moment we’re staring at each other in the rain, and the next my lips are on hers. The kiss is gentle at first, tentative—a question more than a demand. Her lips are soft and rain-damp beneath mine, and when she doesn’t pull away, something wild and reckless ignites in my chest.
My hand finds her face, cradling her cheekas the kiss deepens. She tastes like rain and fear and something sweeter—something that feels dangerously like hope. I shouldn’t be doing this. She’s vulnerable, still recovering from a panic attack, still technically married to a cheating bastard. And I’m... well, I’m a mess of epic proportions with a family drama straight out of a spy novel.
But I can’t stop. Not when she’s kissing me back, her fingers tangling in my wet hair, pulling me closer as if I’m oxygen and she’s still fighting for breath.
When we finally break apart, we’re both breathing hard. Her eyes are wide, reflecting the moonlight that’s breaking through the clouds. For once in my life, I have no idea what to say.
“Well,” she finally whispers, “that wasn’t in the treasure hunt brochure.”
A laugh escapes me, unexpected and genuine. “No refunds, I’m afraid.”
She smiles, and her face transforms, chasing away the last shadows of panic. “Wouldn’t dream of asking for one.”
