Page 102 of Tempting Little Thief

Dragging myself up two steps, I sit, stretching my torso back and placing my head on the brick, wishing the dizziness away. When this first started happening a little over a year ago, I thought it was a panic attack, which is the last thing someone like me needed. I could hear my father’s voice in my head the moment I was sure I had figured out what was wrong.

If you cannot be composed, you cannot be what is needed. You must be in control at all times, aware of your surroundings, and able to lead a conversation or situation the way that you wish it to go.

What use would I be if every time things grew tricky, I turned into a shaky, fuzzy-headed mess?

I thought that was the worst I could get, but I was wrong.

Asthma. Late asthma onset caused by overexposure to chemicals.

From diving.

I had always been told my dedication to the water showed strength and resilience. It turns out that what my father claims is wrong. There is such a thing as overexertion. As too much practice, training too hard, but he was also right—love does kill, and mine for the water nearly claimed my lungs as payment.

It’s not a huge issue outside the water. Muggy air, such as a sauna, can sometimes tighten my rib cage, but other than that, the punishment only comes when I step inside this space.

No one knows, not even the girls. I have an emergency inhaler hidden in several places, but I’ve yet to use them. People assume I reached the top and therefore had no need to continue, but a musician doesn’t stop making music simply because she earns a Grammy, and an artist doesn’t stop creating a national metal. The same goes for a diver, but I don’t dwell on the loss. It would do me no good.

I don’t bother changing from my suit but wrap a robe around me and head for my room.

The girls and I have a job to set up, this time to send a warning to someone who rubbed Bronx’s dad the wrong way, and we’re told it’s for us to handle, not something to use as training for any Greyson or Greyson prospects. So it will be a long night of planning after Delta’s rehearsal and Bronx’s studio session. Thank God for that. I need the distraction.

As I step into my closet, tossing the robe into the hamper, my body stills.

Footsteps and the low trickle of water reaches my ears, and I tear through the space, throwing open my bathroom door.

Kylo whips around, throwing his hands up, a grin spread across his lips.

I look from him to the bath, bubbles spreading before my eyes, and I snap them back to his. “What the hell are you doing in my wing?”

“I have permission,” he rushes to add.

My head yanks back, a humorless laugh leaving me. “Excuse me?”

“Took the words right out of my mouth,” comes from behind, and I spin as Kenex steps around me, wine bottle and glass in his hand.

My mouth opens, but nothing comes out at first. I stand there, watching as the two prepare a bath, and then Saylor is there.

“Excuse me,” she says quietly.

All I can do is step aside and glare at them and the plate of cheeses and fruits Saylor sets on the glass shelf designed specifically for this use.

She dips her head, walking out, and then the boys follow.

I blink and blink again, and then my phone beeps from my room.

With backward steps, I go to retrieve it, a text from Bastian waiting on the screen.

Bastian: nothing a hot bath can’t fix.

Frowning, I reread those words with a wave of confusion.

“Bad day?”

“Nothing a steaming bath won’t fix.”

My memory clicks, remembering the conversation, if you can call it that, we had that first day. My brows crash, eyes darting over every inch of the space.

My bathroom is a thing of beauty, a personal escape meant solely for me.

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