“Bullshit.” I step closer still, my chest nearly touching his back. “I know what a panic attack looks like.”
A tremor runs through him, and I watch his throat work as he swallows. His hands are shaking against the sink, betraying him even as his face tries to maintain that mask of indifference he’s so fond of.
“It’s nothing,” he repeats, but the words are hollow. “Just go back to your girlfriend and your family dinner.”
“She’s not my girlfriend.” I reach around him, turning on the cold water. “Here, splash your face.”
He stares at the running water as if he’s forgotten what it’s for. I want to grab him, shake him, demand answers—my usual approach. But something about the fragility in his posture stops me. The Vincent I knew five years ago was steel wrapped in silk. This Vincent is glass on the verge of shattering.
I cup my hands under the stream, gathering water, and without asking permission, bring them to his face. The shock of the cold water makes him gasp, his eyes finally meeting mine in the mirror. They’re wide, the amber-gold of his irises nearly swallowed by dilated pupils.
“What the fuck are you doing?” he demands.
“Helping.” I wet my hands again, this time bringing them to the back of his neck, letting cool water trickle down his collar. “You’re having a panic attack. Cold helps.”
He doesn’t resist as I continue, wetting my fingers and drawing them across his forehead, down his temples. His breathing slows gradually, some of the rigidity leaving his shoulders. I don’t stop until the worst of the trembling subsides.
“Better?” I ask, reaching around him to shut off the water.
He nods. I keep my position behind him, boxing him in against the sink, unwilling to give him space to run. Not again.
“Vincent.” I grasp his shoulders, turning him to face me. “Look at me.”
It takes a moment, but he finally raises his eyes to mine. The vulnerability there catches me off guard. I’m used to seeing defiance in those eyes, challenge, even anger. But fear? That’s new. And it hits me somewhere deep, awakening a protective instinct I didn’t know I possessed.
“What are you so afraid of?” I ask, my voice dropping lower.
His gaze slides away again. “Nothing. I told you—”
I grasp his chin, tilting his face back to mine, but gently now—so gently it surprises us both. “I know fear when I see it. And you’re terrified right now.”
Something flickers across his face—resignation mixed with exhaustion. Like he’s tired of running, tired of fighting.
“Is it my father?” I ask. “Are you afraid of Yuri?”
There’s a flash of reaction in his eyes he can’t control. Bingo.
“What did he do to you?” The question comes out as a growl, something possessive and violent rising in me at the thought of my father causing that look on Vincent’s face.
“Nothing,” Vincent says quickly.
“Don’t lie to me.” My thumb traces the line of his jaw, feeling the tension there. “Tell me what happened. Why you’re looking at my father like he’s going to kill you.”
Vincent closes his eyes and shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter anymore. It was years ago.”
“It matters to me. Whatever he said, whatever he did—it’s bullshit, Vincent. You know that, right?”
A bitter smile touches his lips. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Then tell me.” My hand slides from his chin to cup his cheek, and he flinches like he expects a blow instead of a caress. “Tell me what he did to make you so afraid.”
“Alex—”
“Because I’ll protect you,” I say, the words spilling out before I can consider them. “From him, from whatever he threatened you with. I’ll protect you.”
A wet chuckle escapes him, but there’s no humor in it. “You? Protect me from Yuri Orlov?” His eyes open, swimming with unshed tears. “You can’t even protect yourself from him.”
The accusation stings, but there’s truth in it I can’t deny. My father’s control over my life is absolute—my education, my future, even who I date. Still…
