Page 54 of Entangled

Pressing down the vicious tumult of nausea and rage, I stay several paces away from her.

“Eden? Eden, can you hear me?” I ask, my voice gentle but firm, the way I might coax a submissive from subspace. Or from a drop. “Focus on my voice, darling girl.”

It takes her a moment to work it through, but I wait patiently until her chin tilts up, and she takes me in with a deep, pained gust of air that comes in several steps. Her hands slip round herself, but they get caught in the slashes of her shirt.

Her eyes are red-rimmed, but curiously dry. Her jaw is swollen on one side, her cheekbone blackened on the other. Her bottom lip is split, and dried blood is crusted under her nose.

My chest aches at how beautiful she is.

She’s raw and rumpled with emotion, and when she sees me, her brow crinkles in confusion.

“Jasper? I thought—” Her voice breaks, and her breaths start coming too fast again. Her knuckles turn white as she tries to hold herself together. “I thought?—”

“I know,” I murmur. “I know this is a lot.”

Her eyes dart to Dominic, then to the strangers fluttering all around us. They are giving us a wide berth, for the most part, but there are a good many of them talking over one another and tending each other’s wounds. It’s oppressively loud.

“Don’t look at them,” I chide her firmly. “Look at me.”

Her wide eyes crash with mine, and I wonder how much she can see, and in how fine a detail, without her glasses on.

But it must be enough.

Those eyes of hers are like gravity itself. Every time she looks at me like this, the world falls away, and so thoroughly it’s almost unsettling.

Her breaths slow, just a touch, as we absorb one another, and I catalog every inch of her face. Every nick of silver and indigo in the powder blue of her eyes. The noise of the crowd becomes muted, distant. Now I’m in her orbit—a planet pulled into place by a quietly burning sun.

“Very good,” I murmur, and she blinks a few times, breaking our gaze. Those heavy lashes of hers cast shadows in her eyes, and I ache at the new darkness in them. The sun shouldn’t be so dark. “Do me a favor now. Tell me five things you can see.”

Color stings her cheeks, and she untangles her hands from her shirt. They don’t remain still for long. Her fingers make quick, uneasy knots in front of her, and the pulse at her throat throbs riotously.

But she pulls back.

“I just— I’m fine,” she stammers. “Please, don’t trouble yourself. I’m okay. I just...” Her husky voice lowers further, shaky, and embarrassed. “I need a minute.”

And it... hurts. It hurts that she doesn’t trust me with her fear or her panic, or the anger I see beneath them like an underscore. It hurts that she feels the need to be strong now, when she should feel safe enough to fall apart.

But why should she trust me? I’ve hardly given her reason.

“I don’t think you’ve been fine for some time, Eden,” I reply gently.

Her face crumples, and I have to stop myself from taking her into my arms.

Not while she looks a moment away from flight.

Not until I’m sure of all the things that might be haunting her, and exactly how much space she might be needing right now.

“Five things, Eden.” I pause, then lower my voice. “It would please me to hear them.”

At that, she blinks, the color in her cheeks deepening. It’s transparently manipulative. Borderline unethical. But her desire to please is so sweetly strong, even now, and the dominant in me, more than the psychologist, needs to see her steady and relaxed. Her unwilling fear scrapes on every protective instinct I have.

Her tongue darts out to touch her lower lip, then her eyes travel over my face.

“You’re sweaty,” she whispers. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you sweaty.”

My lips curl up at the unflattering assessment. “It has been known to happen. Four more.”

The background sounds go quiet when something kindles in her gaze. The smallest ember of humor. It sparks an answering warmth low in my chest.

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