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The words are barely out of my mouth when fire erupts to my right.
Between one blink and the next, flames several feet high roar to life no more than three steps away from me. I shriek and lunge instinctively towards Timofey. My sore arm plows into his chest, but I ignore the scream of pain in my shoulder and plow on. Anything to get away from the flames.
He’s not moving. Why isn’t he moving? The place is burning. We need to run! We need to get the hell out of—
“Piper.”
His hands grip me tightly, keeping me from charging across the restaurant.
“Let me go!” I cry out. “It’s a fire! There’s a—”
“Flambé.” Timofey grabs my chin and turns it towards the table next to us. “Someone ordered Baked Alaska.”
The couple next to us are gawking over, their eyes wide, mouths hanging open. Sticking out of the now-caramelized meringue coating the Baked Alaska is a flaming candle.Happy Birthday, Rhondais piped in gold frosting along the edge of the plate.
I nod and gulp. My mouth tastes like acid. “Right. Okay.”
The information permeates my mind, but my panicked body isn’t responding. The communication between the two has been severed. Despite knowing I’m no longer in danger, I can feel my torso compressing like an aluminum can. My lungs can’t expand. I’m suffocating.
“Breathe,” Timofey commands. “Piper, breathe.”
Even his stern voice isn’t enough to break through the fear strangling me. To drown out the thought running circles in my head.
I’m going to die here.
43
PIPER
“Get up.” Timofey doesn’t give me the chance to refuse him. He hooks an arm around my waist and hauls me against his body.
Distantly, I recognize how muscular his arm is around me. I acknowledge the burning heat of his chiseled chest pressed to my side. But I can’t enjoy it.
Not when it’s the last thing I’ll ever feel.
Timofey walks me around the edge of the dining room. As we pass by the kitchen, our waitress steps out.
“Is everything okay? Do you need—”
“I need you to get the fuck out of my way,” Timofey barks.
The woman stumbles back against the door as we plow past her. A second later, Timofey shoves open the door to the women’s restroom.
A woman is inside washing her hands and he holds the door open for her. His voice is the crack of a whip. “See yourself out.”
She takes one look at him and sprints for the door. The moment she leaves the room, Timofey locks it behind her and turns to me.
“Breathe,” he orders again.
“That isn’t how this works.” I suck in a shaky inhale that does nothing to soothe me. “You can’t order me to stop having a panic attack.”
“Seems as though I can. Look who can speak in full sentences again.”
I bite my tongue. He’s right. I hate that he’s right.
He smooths a heavy hand down my uninjured arm, squeezing as he goes. It’s strangely grounding. I want to tell him to stop, but it would be a lie. The firm pressure is doing wonders to loosen the iron band around my chest.
“I thought you were claustrophobic.”
