Page 66 of The Betrothal

But come out, it would.

“We need to replace the belt on the generator. And the diesel will last to the end of this storm but then we need more.” I moved the conversation on.

He didn’t speak for a moment, jaw flexing. When he finally did speak, it was quietly. “Didn’t we just replace that?”

Ah, he was worried about money too.

“No, Alex. We recently replaced the voltage regulator.” When this didn’t soothe him I offered him platitudes. While they weren’t typically in my nature, I knew they helped others. Sometimes. “But it’s unlikely we will need the generator so much when the snow thaws and the lines are restored. If they fail like this every year, we will soon have entirely new lines to the cottage so maybe we won’t need the generator at all.”

His huff was lighter but unconvinced.

As if on cue, the power dropped. Again.

I’d been waiting for this.

I stood and he didn’t stop me, retreating back outside to the now hushed generator room.

Flicking off the switch on the gently whining machine, I removed the cover panel on autopilot. If I had to bet, the belt had slipped and the output dropped. I could do enough to get it running properly.

Reaching inside the panel, my fingers brushed over the hot components and I hissed at the pain. Careless, Ben. I shook it off, completing the work to stabilise the motor.

Huffing, I switched the engine back on and the thrum of machinery filled the space once more. It didn’t sound great, but it was working.

Looking to my hands, I realised my fingertips were now stained with grease and I puffed out a breath.

I couldn’t stand dirt on my fingers. But similarly, I abhorred gloves of any kind. Leather was too constricting, quality aside, rubber sweated, plastic, I couldn’t even get started on plastic gloves, even the thought of the material had me shuddering.

Reaching to secure the panel, I felt the sharp prick of metal through my sweatshirt and in my haste to disentangle from whatever was digging into me I heard the telltale devastation of tearing fabric.

Horror rose through my chest, surging up from my stomach until I had to physically swallow it back down. My skin pricked with heat. The tension that coiled under my skin tested the restraints I had it under, joining the new coursing emotions until my breath was stolen from my lungs. All available space in my body becoming overrun with primal panic.

I looked for something to focus on, to hold. Tightening my grip on the wrench I carried, the smooth and square edges dug into my skin. The sensation easing a sliver of the panic. I fisted it and identified the next task.

Replace the panel.

Lifting it one-handed, I eased my hold on the tool spinning it and beginning to tighten the bolts until that task was done.

Next, I needed to take the tools back to the workshop.

I could do that.

Gathering them and making my way carefully outside, over to the barn, and inside.

I focused on replacing the items exactly where they belonged. The reassurance of every item being where it needed to be held the wave of pressure at bay.

Surrendering the final wrench to its home, I looked at my palm. The dark pink almost circle shape of the tool embedded into my skin. Shame formed a heavy fog, falling over me to meet the advancing waves of overwhelm.

I knew the moment they met I would have an episode.

Tinkling laughter echoed outside. Izzy and Seb’s voices growing louder.

No. Nope. Not now.

I dug my fingers under my glasses and into my eyes, the pressure painful and another doomed attempt to keep it all under control. I hissed in irritation as the oil slick on my fingers transferred to my face.

Tearing my damned hands from my face I scrubbed my skin with my jumper, glasses driven up onto the top of my head and into my mess of fair hair – one of the last reminders of my biological parents.

The door creaked inwards and they both stalled, their smiles falling from their faces.