Suddenly, I’m chilled through to the bone.
“You good?” Saint asks, as he steers the cart to the checkout.
“I don’t ...” The words come out on a stutter as my teeth chatter. Now people really are looking. “The smell ... it ... shit.”
“Hey, come here,” he says, engulfing me in his arms.
I’m shaking. Uncontrollably. I can’t breathe.
“I’m right here, Briar. You’re not under attack. You’re safe. Slide your hand around my belt.”
Through the fog, I hear his instruction and do as he says. I butt up against his gun.
“You feel that? Anyone comes near you, and they’re gone. Let’s pay for your things and get out of here.”
He holds me long enough for me to ride out the worst of the panic attack. “I’m sorry,” I whisper.
He cups my cheeks and forces me to look up at him. “Never say sorry for this. It’s going to come in waves. Let it pass through you.”
I take a deep breath while looking into his eyes. He breathes with me. One breath. Two breaths. Until I’m calm again.
I feel spacey.
And Saint takes care of me until I have the strength back to take care of myself.
7
SAINT
Ascream pierces the night, and I jump up so fast, I fall off the sofa.
Fuck, I’m not in my own bed.
It’s disorienting, but I hear sobbing punctuated with gasps of air.
Briar.
I hustle to the room, push the door open, and see her thrashing on the bed, still asleep. The sounds she makes are filled with pain.
They say you aren’t meant to wake a person in the middle of dream like this. Not sure why. Probably some old wives’ tale, like if you die in your dreams, you die in real life, which is total and utter bullshit. But seeing her jackknife on the bed, I know I can’t leave her.
I turn on the small lamp, then crawl onto the bed and grab her shoulder. “Briar,” I say softly, then repeat it more firmly. “Briar. Wake up.”
She fights me, trying to throw my hands off. Her fear and panic get worse.
“Briar, you need to wake up, sweetheart.” I try to keep my voice gentle, but whatever she’s dreaming about has an ice-cold grip on her. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out what it is.
“Don’t, don’t, don’t,” she whimpers, pulling her hands up in front of her face.
“Briar!” I yell, shaking her too. And when she wakes up, her eyes immediately wide, her mouth in an O, she fights me for a second more before curling onto her side, facing away from me, and sobbing.
Jesus. I’m not equipped for this. I need to find some way to get her out of here and to someone who can actually help her properly. She deserves better than a broken ATF agent with the emotional range of a dead squirrel.
I place my hand on her hip softly. “Hey, it was a dream, Briar. You’re safe.”
Her body shakes and shivers. She tries to breathe through the sobs. I stand and head to the kitchen. Pouring her a glass of cool tap water, I compose myself, adrenaline still surging through my body at the alarming wake-up call. On the way back, I stop by the bathroom to grab the toilet roll. It’s all I’ve got in the way of tissues. When I return to the bedroom, I sit on the opposite side of the bed so I can see her face. I place the glass of water on the bedside table and unwrap a length of paper.
“Here,” I say.
