And then I was consumed with the shame of having had one in the first place.

I hated these, fucking hated that I was reduced to that same weak little girl every time a panic attack came up. That I was transported right back to my childhood bedroom, that even after seven years and hundreds of miles, I still couldn’t manage to escape.

Just like always, after the terror passed, I got pissed. At myself, always at myself more than anything—or anyone. Frustrated and angry that I was still chained to this. That even after all this time, there were still shackles on my ankles, chaining me to a life I didn’t want to live anymore. Chaining me to memories I wanted to leave forever in the past.

But I knew there was nowhere else for my memories to go. The only way they could manifest, the only way I allowed them to, was in flashbacks and panic attacks. Because I refused to share them, refused to tell anyone anything. It was something I had to keep with me, something I needed to keep inside me, not ever letting it escape.

Because what if I told and someone didn’t believe me? I couldn’t go through that. Not again.

“There … that’s it, that’s better.” Riley heaved a deep sigh, still squatting in front of me, then ducked his head even farther, leaning forward so he was in my line of sight. “You feel better?”

I breathed out an acknowledgment, a squeak of a response, one I hoped he’d take as a yes.

The hand he had resting on my back still rubbed in soft circles, and I realized that this was the shortest attack I’d ever had. Thanks to his touch and his voice and him.

“Was that your first panic attack?” he asked.

Not trusting my voice yet, I just shook my head. I couldn’t even maintain eye contact with him, too embarrassed at everything that had been unearthed in my mind. Almost as if I was terrified he’d be able to read my thoughts, see the memories that had caused the panic attack, and that urge to push it back, bury it again, was strong.

He wrapped his hand around mine, running his thumb along my wrist. His voice was low, tentative, when he asked, “Was it me? Did I do something?” He swallowed, then asked in a pained voice, “Was I too rough?”

My throat was dry, and no matter how many times I swallowed, I couldn’t impart any moisture into my mouth. Still, I croaked, “It wasn’t you.” It was such a small offering in comparison to everything he’d done for me, but it was all I had.

I wanted to tell him that it wasn’t him, it was me. It was my fucked-up childhood and a maelstrom of memories that held me hostage—memories that would never let me go unless I did the same.

And I wanted so badly to be strong enough to open my mouth and say the words. Finally say the words that had strangled me for so long.

Maybe, soon, I would be.

Chapter Twenty-Three

RILEY

The loft was still dark when I jolted awake, a sound startling me to consciousness. I tensed, ready for a fight, so desperately afraid Max had found us, but when I listened, I realized the noises were coming from Evie. After her panic attack, she’d asked to be alone—or as alone as she could be in the loft. So I’d let her take the bed, curled up on her side, her eyes glassy and far away, while I’d settled on the couch ten feet away, my body tight and coiled with the overwhelming urge to go to her. To help her. Hold her and talk to her and beg her to tell me what was going on. Protect her like I hadn’t been able to protect her five years ago.

I sat up, glancing over the back of the couch and letting my eyes adjust to the darkness. She was on the bed, the covers twisted around her legs. Her head was thrashing back and forth on the pillow, muffled protests leaving her lips. The words spilling from her mouth were unintelligible, but they didn’t need to be comprehensible for me to know she was having a nightmare. The sheer terror was coming off her in waves.

I didn’t know if this was par for the course for her after a panic attack, if this was something she dealt with all the time. If the attacks had started after she’d left, when she’d moved and changed her name, when she’d first run from Max. I didn’t know anything other than the fact that the one last night hadn’t been her first.

I pushed off the couch and walked over to her, moving to stand at the side of the bed. Her hair was sprawled out on the pillow, a tangled mess, some strands covering her face, a few caught on her lower lip. She whimpered again, her brow puckered, her face in pure torment. I reached down and brushed my fingers over her shoulder, hoping it would rouse her. When it didn’t, I cupped it and shook it gently. “Evie,” I whispered.

Just like that, she jolted awake, snapping upright and scrambling to the other side of the bed, her back against the brick wall, her eyes wide as she stared at me.

Whatever she’d seen in her dreams, it was obvious it had terrified her. Softening my voice, I said, “Baby, it’s me. It’s just me.”

She was looking at me like she’d never seen me before, almost staring right through me, and I leaned down, staying on the other side of the bed but resting my hands against the mattress and angling my body toward hers, putting myself directly in her line of vision. “Evie. It’s me. It’s Riley.”

Her eyes came into focus then, and if I hadn’t known her so well, I wouldn’t have noticed the fear still lingering there. And I sure as hell wouldn’t have seen the embarrassment swimming in her eyes, manifesting in the blush blooming on her cheeks. She’d always hated that her emotions showed plain as day on her fair skin, hated that she wasn’t able to disguise that from others when she always put up a front when needed. She thought it put her at a disadvantage, made her an easy target. She’d always hated to show any kind of vulnerability at all.

“I’m fine,” she said, even though I hadn’t asked. Her voice was scratchy and rough, and she cleared her throat and tried again, “I’m fine. Just a bad dream.”

Then, as if she didn’t have a care in the world, as if she hadn’t just woken from a nightmare hours after having an intense and debilitating panic attack, she brushed the hair back from her face, carefully extracted the tangled blankets from around her legs, and got off the bed. With a straight spine, head held high, she headed toward the bathroom with slow, measured steps. The door shut softly behind her, and though this departure was less dramatic than the one from earlier, it was essentially the same. That rectangle of wood might as well have been a brick wall stacked ten feet tall with how effectively she ended any and all conversation about what had just happened.

Except it wasn’t going to work quite as well for her this time.

Something was up with her. Something was going on besides what little she was telling me, and while I might’ve been willing to let it go at one time, that wasn’t true anymore.

Not now. Not when I’d seen exactly what keeping this inside had done to her.

EVIE

I splashed some cold water on my face before dabbing it off with a hand towel, then I braced my hands on the vanity and tried to just breathe.

For so long, it felt like I hadn’t been able to breathe.

I’d known this was coming. After my panic attack, after the talk earlier with Riley and Aaron, I’d known this was what would be awaiting me in my dreams. And yet, try as I might, I hadn’t been able to stop sleep from pulling me under.

The nightmare—one so familiar and yet one I hadn’t had in a long while—had gripped me by the throat and refused to let me go. And I felt how I always did after one—dirty, sullied, and so sick with the knowledge that what had happened in my nightmare hadn’t lived only there, as part of illusions my mind created.

It lived in me. Was woven through every thread in my body, in my mind. It was a part of me, a part of who I was, and it always would be. No matter how far I traveled, no matter how much time had passed, it was still with me, buried deep inside.