Текст книги "Skin of a sinner"

Автор книги: Avina St. Graves

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Chapter 9

ISABELLA

3 Years Ago

Roman: 19 years old – Isabella: 17 years old.

The rest of the morning goes by in a blur. Having to spend lunch without Mickey was the biggest adjustment, and most of the kids here knew to steer clear of me when Roman was around.

But at least I have Janelle. She doesn’t talk much; we just sit together and read because “girls stick together” and all that.

She’s leaning back against a tree, golden brown hair fanned over her shoulders. Now, she is beautiful. In the understated, geeky sort of way. It’s the kind where with a good haircut and a dash of mascara, every girl and boy would be transfixed by.

We have a couple of classes together and always pair up for any group activities. She’s kind of boring, though I wouldn’t be surprised if she thought the same about me. The only things we have in common are classes and our love of books and art.

She did give me a birthday hug this morning, which was nice, I guess.

Then we went back to ignoring each other.

Like now.

Fine by me; my book is just getting to the good part. Finally. It took about three hundred pages.

“Is that book three?” Janelle nods to the book I’m holding, then takes a bite of her sandwich. We’re at Mickey’s and my old hang-out spot, another blind spot on the school grounds.

I nod. “The last one in the series.”

“Any good?”

“Honestly, I’m just glad it’s over.”

She snorts. “Say no more.”

“My favorite character was killed off, so—"

“I heard a rumor,” a rough voice says from behind me.

Janelle and I tense. Two silhouettes stretch around us, and then the shadow falls over me, blocking the sun. Slowly, I turn around and brace myself for whatever is about to happen. I already know who is behind us. Only two people at this school have the guts to talk to me after everything Roman did.

Mikhail and Maxim, the identical twins that started this year. The only difference between the two is the beauty spot on Maxim’s cheek.

“Do you know what the rumor is?” Mikhail asks, staring right at me.

We say nothing. Sometimes they get bored and move on to terrorizing someone else. Those who aren’t part of a pack always become prey, and to the hunters in our year group, Janelle and I are the wounded rabbits.

I jolt when Maxim snatches the book from my hands. “He asked you a question.”

Neither of them pays Janelle any mind, and I send her a mental message to run. She’s not about to play hero, and there’s no point for the both of us to be victims. Girls stick together, but a herd of gazelles will do nothing to stave off a lion. You run, and only the fastest will survive.

“What rumor?” I say.

If their attention stays on me, Janelle will be able to leave. She must realize this because she quietly stands and gets the hell away.

Satisfaction oozes from Mikhail, and his eyes light up with the same predatory glint I’ve seen on Roman’s face many times. The twins know I’m not stupid enough to try to fight them. I’ve heard them say enough times that their dad bought them each a gun for their fourteenth birthday. Everyone at school has seen them put another boy in a coma just because he accidentally spilled his water on Maxim.

Once, they threatened to stab me if I told the teacher they pushed me down the stairs. But even if I told someone, nothing would happen. This school doesn’t have the resources or the care to do anything.

“A little birdie told me you can’t say your r’s.” Mikhail laughs.

I grit my teeth. “I got over it years ago.”

There’s no confidence in my voice, and I try my best to keep it completely even. Men like the twins and Roman get off on seeing weakness and getting a reaction. Despite it, there’s no missing the quiver when I say the words.

“You hear that, Maxim? She got over it.” Mikhail chuckles, lacking any humor, as he hits his brother’s arm. His attention trains on me, and every single fiber of my being screams at my legs to run. “Must have been something fucked up with you if you couldn’t even say a letter.” He bends down so he’s right in my face. “One fucking letter. Your mom dropped you on the head, huh?”

I blink quickly. I can’t let him see any tears. I can’t. Where’s Roman? Why isn’t he here when I need him?

“What? You mute too?” Maxim sneers.

I can’t help the sound that escapes when I’m yanked onto my knees by a painful grip on my hair. Maxim shoves my face into the book in my hands.

“Read it,” he sings.

My scalp burns from his vicious hold, pulling strands out of my braid. I know the moment my bottom lip quivers, they feel like they’ve won. Their malicious looks turn smug.

“I said fucking read it, bitch.”

I try to do as they say, but I can’t make out the letters through my blurring vision.

“Blind, too?” Mikhail laughs. “You gonna cry to your mommy? She gon’ knock you on the head even more?”

“Don’t talk about her,” I cry.

I know my mistake the instant I say it. I showed them my weakness.

One of them whistles. The only thing I can say for certain is that the ink on the page is bleeding along with my heart. Another shard gone, a stab at the hole in my armor.

“Isa’s mom is a whore,” one of them sings. They’re trying to get a reaction from me.

“I bet the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”

“She’s not!” I yell, knowing it’ll be hopeless. There’s no logic to what they do. They want someone to pick on. They don’t care what the reason is. If they don’t take jabs at my mother, they’ll keep trying until they find another way to sink the knife.

“Bet your daddy didn’t stick around.” More snickers fill the air as Maxim pulls me around again so I’m closer to Mikhail, yanking out hair as he does it.

I try to suppress a whimper. “Leave me alone,” I plead.

I’ve seen how those words affect Roman when someone says them to him. They make him smile as if they’re an invitation, rather than a rejection.

“We got it wrong, Mikhail. She’s all alone. Orphaned mutt. Neither of her parents wants her.”

Hot tears burn my cheeks. It doesn’t matter how hard I try to stop it, they keep falling. With each drop, another point is added on their side.

“Hey!” someone else yells, and the hold on my hair vanishes, but the burning sensation remains. I fall to the ground, and pain radiates from the side of my chin from the impact of the concrete.

I don’t hear the twins scurry off or notice Janelle and the teacher’s hands on me. Nothing seems to exist as they pull me to my feet.

Those boys were right—at least partly. My only living parent doesn’t want me. Jeremy will grow up and forget all about me. Mickey will probably fall in love with someone who actually deserves him. A person who can give to him as much as he gives to them, look him in the eye when he speaks, and have a proper conversation without choking up. He’s going to be with someone who knows how to love herself and the life she has. She won’t have a leaking heart. She won’t constantly need his protection.

Once everything—and everyone—is gone, nothing will be left of me. I have no plans for college, no idea what I will do with my life beyond the plans I made with Mickey, where we’d travel around the country.

I’ve read enough books to know about emotional journeys. The heroine will start off sad, chapters away from breaking. Then she’ll learn from every test, blossom after every trial, and she's healed by the end of her story. Whole.

That’s not my story.

A happy ending is not written in my book.

Nothing will change the fact that I don’t have my parents. Mickey is the only family I have, and I have to accept that one day he will move on to bigger and better things.

I’ll be cemented in the same spot, a spot of my own making.

The nurse lets me hang out in her office until the three o’clock bell rings. I spend each minute leading up to it dreading seeing Mickey. He won’t even need to see my face to figure out something went wrong today because my messed-up hair is enough of a tell. I won’t be able to lie to him, and he knows all my buttons to make me speak.

Then, he’ll be angry, and his fists will get involved.

I stare at my feet and ignore the ache in my scalp and the bruise forming on my chin, walking to where Mickey waits. The closer I get, the more the feeling of being vulnerable disappears. When he’s around, no one can hurt me. The only one who can is me; as much as Mickey tries, he can’t protect me from myself.

Students old enough to know Roman’s reputation scurry past him, and they don’t dare bat an eye in his direction. I feel the instant he decides that blood will be spilled tonight.

“What’s wrong?” His hands are on me within a matter of seconds, tugging my sleeves up and turning my face to check me over. The second he spots the mark on my chin, he erupts. “Who the fuck did this?”

“No one—it’s nothing.” I try to tear away from his grasp, but he tightens his hold. “I just want to go home.”

“Like fuck it’s nothing.”

Rage vibrates from him in waves, and I stare down at my feet because if his silver eyes bore into mine, I’ll crumble. He cups my cheek and angles my face up.

“Look at me, Bella. Tell me what happened.”

“Nothing happened.” I still can’t bring myself to look at him. “Can we just go?”

“Do you think someone can hurt you and get away with it? You should know the answer by now.”

I shake my head and blink back tears like the child I am. I don’t want to cry in front of him, because it’ll become an even bigger deal, and I want to seem like I have my shit together.

“It doesn’t matter anymore, Mickey. I just want to forget about it and move on with my day.” My face hurts, but my soul is aching. The only thing I want to do is crawl under the blankets and cry into my pillow.

“Give me names.”

It’s on the tip of my tongue to spill the words he’s looking for. “I can’t keep running to you to save me.”

“You won’t need to run; I’ll already be there.”

“No, you won’t be. One day, you will move on, and I’ll need to learn to fend for myself. You won’t always be there to help me.”

“Like fuck, I won’t.” He looks at me, the promise of death in his eyes. “Names, Isabella.”

“No.”

“Give me names, and we can go.”

“Mickey, no, I—"

“And what’s the plan? How are you planning on stopping him if he bothers you again? You gonna hit him?”

I’m about to say yes, but we both know it’ll be a lie. I’d do it for Jeremy, maybe even Janelle, but I’ll be an unfortunate casualty.

“I’ll talk to them.”

“Them?”

One person, and I may get away with withholding a name. He’d just watch from a distance and wait until I crack. Two? He’d burn the place down to find out.

“Tell me, has that ever worked on me? Has anyone ever talked me out of knocking their lights out?”

No. Maybe I could, but it’d only be damage control. Instead of five broken bones, it might only be two.

“Is this the first time they’ve bothered you?”

I stare at the spot between his collarbones where the skin dips.

“You can fucking set out tea and write them damn letters. There isn’t a thing that will make them stop coming for you. They’ve tasted blood and made you cry. They thought they won, and they’ll keep coming back because picking on someone smaller is the only time they feel like men. They need to know they’ve lost—and they did as soon as they touched you.”

I know he’s right. I hate that he’s right. I’m weak. If this were the wild, I would have died a long time ago if it weren’t for Mickey. Natural selection would have taken me out. He doesn’t just save me or stop the harm from coming. He helps me pick up the parts and put them back together again.

“Mikhail and Maxim Androv. They’re twins.”

“Good,” he says.

I know what will happen when I say their names, and I have absolutely no remorse or guilt. What does it say about me that I won’t even beg Roman to go easy on them or not approach them at all? What’s wrong with me that when he says “good,” I couldn’t agree more?

“Where’s your phone?”

The sudden change of topic gives me whiplash. “What?”

“Your phone. Where is it?”

“I, uh.” Why can I barely string together a sentence around him? What is happening to me? I clear my throat. “In my bag.”

“Turn around.” He doesn’t wait for me to do as I’m told. He grabs my shoulder, spins me away from him, takes my phone out of the front pocket, turns me back in place, and then places the device in my hand. “The next time something happens, you call me. Even if it’s just to ask which shirt you should wear or if you're out of snacks. I don’t give a shit if I’m working, sleeping, or half-dead; you grab that phone, and you call me. I’ll pick up whatever you need, even if I’m six feet under, Bella. There isn’t a god in existence that could stop me from getting to you. So you pick up that phone and call me before you even think about calling the cops. Got it?”

I stare at him, dumbfounded. I’m not sure why I’m surprised to hear any of this when those are the only words I’d expect from Mickey. I guess I’m still surprised whenever someone is there for me when I need it, because the only other person who has ever supported and cared for me was my ma.

I nod. Within a split second, the anger in his eyes is gone, shoved beneath the surface, his usual grin taking the scowl’s place.

“Come on. We’ve got a long trip ahead of us.”

OceanofPDF.com

Chapter 10

ISABELLA

3 Years Ago

Roman: 19 years old – Isabella: 17 years old.

Roman is probably kidnapping me right now. Even if it weren’t a maybe but a definitely, I probably wouldn’t put up as much of a fight as I should.

I have absolutely no idea where we’re going. It’s not like I can ask him since we’re on a motorbike. I don’t need to see the dash to know we haven’t been going anywhere near the legal speed limit for the past three hours. All I know is that my ass hurts, my hands are cold, and my back aches from gripping onto him for dear life.

We pass a series of back roads and forestry that give my stomach a run for its money, and I almost fall off once or twice.

If this is a kidnapping, I will fight him tooth and nail for the two things keeping me in place: graduation and Jeremy. Because maybe I’ll have an epiphany on what I want to do with my life once I walk onto the stage and have the certificate in my hands.

There’s not a single thing in the world that would make me leave Jeremy with those horrible people. If I could, I’d take him in and raise him myself, but what type of life would he have? Best-case scenario, I manage to convince state services to move Jeremy to a half-decent home.

I breathe a sigh of relief when we finally slow down, only to groan when he turns us down a dodgy driveway, passing through a busted gate coated in rust hidden behind excessive overgrowth. I can barely see the gravel beneath all the weeds and fallen leaves.

The ground crunches beneath the wheel, and I hold back a gag.

There are probably a bunch of animal carcasses hidden under there.

Yuck.

Maybe he isn’t kidnapping me, but skipping straight to murder. I probably wouldn’t be surprised if he decided to turn this into a suicide pact.

My only assurance that he will continue wreaking havoc for at least one more day is the fact that Mikhail and Maxim don’t have a single mark bestowed upon them by Roman in the name of my honor.

Or maybe it’s Mickey trying to avenge me.

Or maybe it’s his excuse to punch something. Not like he’d need to use me as an excuse. If he feels like it, he’ll just do it.

My grip around his waist grows tighter as the bike maneuvers around potholes and angry-looking bushes. I pray to God I don’t see a dead animal. That may just ruin my mood more than the twins did.

We finally come to a stop in front of a rickety old house that looks like it hasn’t seen life in years. He kills the engine and doesn’t waste any time dismounting, shucking off his helmet, and grinning at me like a kid who is proudly showing off his art project to a parent.

Hesitantly, I unclip the helmet and slide off the bike, landing on the ground with a thud. The muscles in my thighs protest, and I throw my hand back to keep balanced. Mickey has the audacity to look pleased about my suffering.

Ass.

“Do you like it?” he asks in the same voice Jeremy uses when he pretends to seek your approval, but is really just fishing for compliments because he knows it’s good. Although, I don’t think that’s a word I would associate with the horror house in front of me.

Cobwebs hang across the deck like layers of chiffon, and darkness hides between the cracks of broken wooden beams, moldy and gray from neglect. Slats are nailed over windows, making the place look even more unwelcoming.

There’s no doubt in my mind that someone was murdered here. If I start digging around, I’m sure I’ll find some bodies that didn’t make it to the coroner’s office.

How the hell did Mickey find this place?

Better yet, what on earth are we doing here?

“I know what you’re thinking.” He sidles up next to me and throws his arm over my shoulder as if he were a top-shot real estate agent. “Wow, Mickey, this is amazing! I can’t believe how romantic and perfect you are.” Mimicking my voice, he places a hand over his heart. “Thank you for driving me three hours to the middle of nowhere and being so perfect.”

I glare at him and his stupidly smug face. It only seems to encourage him.

He cups my cheek and says, “Well, my sweet Bella, to that, I say you are most welcome. Anything for you.”

“Right. So are you going to kill me?” I half mutter out of unease, and half grumble out of impatience.

He pinches my cheek as I scowl at him, slapping his hand away. “Vicious princess.” Chuckling while entwining our fingers, he pulls me along behind him. “But no, not yet.”

“That doesn’t bring me any comfort.” I glower.

With a wink, he grabs a bag from inside his bike, and starts dragging me behind the house to an even freakier-looking shed. If he isn’t killing me, is he killing someone else?

God, what if he has hostages in there?

“Don’t worry, I’ll protect you,” Mickey croons, and I hit his chest lightly. The act seems playful from the outside, but my rapidly increasing heart rate is a whole other story.

“What are we doing here, Roman?” I tense, waiting for another non-answer.

He’s good at those.

“Don’t call me that.” His gaze darkens, and I almost regret saying anything. But I have a right to know what we’re doing at an abandoned house, walking toward a creepy shed when the sun is just about to set. He can get over being called something other than Mickey. “Be patient.”

Sensing my agitation, he pauses to face me. Just when I think he’s going to soothe my worries and give me the answers I so desperately want at this moment, he makes my anxieties worse. I'm not sure what I expect when he pulls something out of his pocket, but it wasn’t a black cloth that he proceeds to tie around my head to cover my eyes.

The world around me plunges into darkness, and my adrenaline kicks up a notch, making me hyper-aware of every thread of fabric touching my skin.

“Leave it,” he warns as my hands move toward my face.

“What the hell, Mickey! I can’t see anything.” He’s meant to be terrorizing everyone but me.

“That’s exactly the point.”

I growl under my breath, but bite back a smile. This time, when I touch the cloth, a steel grip clamps around my wrist, and I’m hauled toward his hard chest.

I can’t see a thing with the blindfold, but all my other senses are heightened. I can feel every one of his breaths that fans my face, the heavy beats of his heart beneath my hands, and the chill of the night air licking my neck.

Goosebumps erupt over my skin, and I shiver when the lightest touch of his lips brushes against my ear. “Are you going to be a good girl and walk with your hands at your sides, or will I need to carry you?” His voice is filled with danger, but with an edge like he’s hoping for the latter so that I can be his own rag doll for the rest of the night.

“Tell me where we’re going first.”

He pulls back as his chest beneath my hands vibrates with his silent laugh. “The shed. Obviously. Stop being difficult.”

“I’m being difficult?” I all but screech. “You took me to—excuse my language—the middle of butt-fuck nowhere, and then you blindfold me and drag me to some shady barn thing?”

He nudges my side. “Have I ever done you wrong?”

I throw my arms up. “Yes. Many times.”

“Like when?” The way he says it is like I’ve accused him of committing treason.

And they say women are dramatic.

“Let’s see. How about that time you wanted to explore a lake, and it turned out to be a landmine?” I put my hands on my hips.

“It was decommissioned,” he counters.

I huff. “Or when you took me to see ‘some cool art,’ and then we had to run from the cops because you were caught tagging?”

“Wasn’t a lie. The art was cool.” I can just imagine him cocking his chin up with a prickly grin.

“What about when you fed me undercooked chicken, and I was out with food poisoning for a week?” I say pointedly.

He’s silent for one beat, then two. “But did you die?”

I gape at him. “I was so dehydrated from throwing up, I thought I saw God.”

“No, you saw me. And I’ve apologized.” His voice drops a level, and I can feel the guilt seeping out of him.

I bite the inside of my cheek, because it was a low blow. He stayed up with me the whole time, tying my hair back as I threw up my guts, brushing my teeth when I didn’t have the energy to, and then he carried me back to bed.

“Now you’re a master chef who’s taken me hostage,” I say with a joking edge.

The week after that, he began using all these cooking terminologies like sautéing and braising. Mickey refuses to admit it, but I have a hunch he started watching cooking videos. There’s no way he went from undercooking boiled chicken to making homemade empanadas without the internet.

A pause lingers between us. “Yet you haven’t attempted to take off the blindfold again.” I launch into defense mode and twist my arms out of his grip, just like he taught me. “Cut it out. That wasn’t an invitation,” he snaps, then lowers his voice and says, “But well done. Good technique.”

My skin heats from the praise. Please, Isabella, contain yourself.

“Walk or carry?”

My breath catches in my throat. “Tell me what—"

“One.”

“Mickey, seriously, I—"

“Two.”

“Why won’t you tell—" My words end with a shriek when strong arms move behind my knees and sweep me off my feet. As it always does when it comes to Mickey, my body betrays me, and without thought, I wrap my hands behind his neck. “No!”

He chuckles. “Too late. You’re at my mercy now.”

I dissolve into his hold. Even though layers are separating us, we may as well be skin-to-skin. I’m on fire, and the only person who can put me out is him, even though he’s what ignited me. But this is a dangerous game. Something so simple shouldn’t unwind me so much.

“Put me down right now, Roman Riviera.”

I swear I hear him growl. “Do you want to find out if I have duct tape, too?”

My mouth clamps shut.

No… he wouldn’t, would he? Surely not…

“Good girl,” he muses.

I’m about to say something else. Maybe something snarky, but I really don’t want to find out if a roll of duct tape is hidden inside his leather jacket.

That kind of kidnapping scenario would be a little too much for me.

Just a little.

Okay, a lot.

The rhythmic thump of his feet along the ground and the soft sway of his movements could lull me to sleep. I admit that I’m disappointed when he lowers me to the ground. I have to pry my fingers apart to let go of his neck, and before I let go of him fully, I miss his warmth. I didn’t exactly dress for the outdoors, so the riding jacket doesn’t do enough to stop the autumn chill from sinking into my bones.

“Stay,” he orders. I lift my hands up to the blindfold, but he slaps them away. “Don’t touch.”

“I’m not a dog,” I seethe.

“Mmhmm,” he hums.

I grumble under my breath and cross my arms to preserve warmth while a bunch of banging and grunting happens a few feet to my right.

Please don’t be a dead body.

Please don’t be a dead body.

Please don’t be a dead body.

On my next inhale, a low whine whirls at the bottom of my lungs, and I freeze.

Oh...

Shit…

Mickey better not have heard that.

I swallow and quietly clear my throat, even though I know it will do nothing to eliminate the wheeze. It’s still worth a try. If he hears me, he’s going to be absolutely livid. Not only did I forget to bring my inhaler, but I haven’t taken it in at least three days. Which just so happens to be the timeframe for my asthma to kick in if left unmedicated.

Of course, Mickey knows this.

He knows freaking everything there is to know about me.

I jolt when his fingers wrap around my elbow. I didn’t even hear him coming, too lost in my panicked thoughts.

“After you, Princess.”

I shuffle across the ground hesitantly, attempting to keep my breaths short so he doesn’t hear the hitch in each of them. The itch in my lungs grows, and I have to resist the urge to clear my throat every three seconds.

Mickey gently guides me a few more steps before stopping and twisting my body so he has me where he wants me. It’s quieter here, the insects’ songs dulled. My nose twitches as I try to find any answer about our whereabouts from scent alone, but all I can smell is Mickey, fresh earth, and the lingering scent of hay.

He takes his time untying the cloth around my head as I hold my breath without much thought, too scared to breathe with him so close.

My lungs scream and heave—and holy crap, it’s so itchy. They feel like they’re filled with the ticklish, crawling insects that sing outside.

There has to be a way to reach inside myself and scratch my lungs.

I blink a couple of times from the burst of sudden light. Then I blink some more to make sure I’m seeing things correctly.

I take one step forward.

And another, spinning in a slow circle to take everything in. Fairy lights twinkle, wrapped around pillars and hanging from beam to beam. Pillows are stacked on top of a thick woolen blanket laid on the concrete floor. Next to it are boxes of blankets and pillows, as well as every single one of my favorite snacks. I turn and spot a white sheet hanging on the wall, along with a projector a couple of feet in front of it.

There’s a soft whirring from somewhere—a generator, I’m guessing. It’s the only way the light bulb would work unless the abandoned horror house has electricity.

How did he get all this stuff here on his bike?

He must have spent hours here, cleaning and setting everything up. The walls are free of spider webs, and not a single strand of hay can be seen.

I completely forget I’m struggling to breathe as I gape at my surroundings. No one has ever done anything like this for me before. I turn to find Mickey leaning against the door with his hands stuffed into his pockets. “It’s so beautiful,” I gasp.

He shrugs with his typical confident attitude. “I know.”

He didn’t need to do all of this for me. This is going above and beyond my wildest dreams. I did nothing to deserve any of it. “You did all this for me?”

Easing himself from the doorway, my heart picks up as he closes the distance. I try taking smaller breaths with the purpose of making sure my static chest stays silent. I want to wrap my arms around him and press my lips to his plush ones so he knows how much I appreciate this.

So he knows I see him—all of him—even when no one else does.

I meet his intense stare as he gazes down at me, looking completely lost in whatever he must see in me. “When will you realize there is nothing I wouldn’t do for you?”

My lips part, and I swallow a cough. “I can’t believe you did all this. How much did all this even cost? How long did it take? When did you have time to do all of this?”

He leans forward and lowers his voice like he’s telling me a secret. “I’m a god.”

“You’d be a really shitty one. You’ll probably do the opposite of whatever people pray for.” He’s downplaying what he’s done, like he always does.

“Who do you pray to?”

I narrow my eyes, confused. “I don’t pray.”

“You’d get on your knees for me if I asked. Does that make me your god, Princess?”

I choke on an inhale, then the critters crawling in my lungs let loose. The first cough that rips through my throat is a sputter. The second has me hunched over, gasping for air, only to cough instead.

Each one is more painful than the last, and my stomach clenches like I’m about to vomit, but nothing comes out. Tears prick my eyes, and everything is cold but burning at the same time.

I try to slow my breathing while also trying to sit upright, but it’s all useless. Dots blur my vision, and I don’t notice the hands on me until something is shoved in my mouth. My brain picks up on what’s happening—just barely—and I close my mouth around the plastic and push down on the medication.

The puff of medicine doesn’t reach my lungs on the first try, but thankfully it does on the second. I try a third time for good measure.

My body is weightless, crumbled on the floor with a hard mass at my back while I focus on breathing.

One measured breath, then two.

Heaving is the better word. Or gasping. Rasping. All the above.

It gets easier as the seconds pass, with the help of the circles Mickey is rubbing against my back. Though his touch does nothing to take away the ache in my ribs or the claws ripping down my throat.

Leaning my head against Mickey’s shoulder, he shifts so his arms are wrapped around my waist, rocking us from side to side, murmuring something I can’t make out over the rush of adrenaline.

Minutes pass as my breathing evens out, and oxygen slowly seeps back into my brain. I almost wish it didn’t so I can escape Mickey’s questioning.

“Where’s your inhaler?”

Silence follows.

He knows the answer, and I don’t have the energy to think of an elaborate excuse for why it isn’t in my pocket or my bag like it should be.

“Where’s your inhaler, Isabella?” His voice is darker this time, and the tension returns to my tired body.

“At…”

“The next words out of your mouth better not be ‘at home,’” he warns, and his arms stop giving me the comfort they did moments ago. “Jesus Christ, Bella. You can’t keep forgetting.”

I shuffle away from him so we face each other, but my attention trains on my intertwined hands. “I’m fine. It’s only mild.”

I hear his sharp intake of breath before he all but yells, “Do you realize how serious this is? What if you have an asthma attack and I’m not there, huh?” Roman moves closer, so I can’t avoid seeing his anger. “What if no one around you has an inhaler? What then? You could die.”