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“. . . lle. Elle. Elle!”
My name?
I realize it’s my name because it’s the only sound that doesn’t peel my face off.
That chocolate-silk voice pours over me, trying so hard to erase the pain.
Then there’s a huge hand at the small of my back. Hot as sand- and sea-washed rocks left baking under the sun all day, easing that warmth back into me.
It’s all comfort.
And suddenly, the flashers stop assaulting me.
Because there’s a tall body moving between me and the source like a wall.
I don’t think anything could ever get through August Marshall.
My senses are a stained glass window after a shattering gunshot, but I know the scent of sandalwood and the crispness of his suit and his weight.
When I’ve got a real rager going on, the slightest stimulation can shred me, but this—this is grounding me, sheltering me, as August’s arms pull me against his chest.
I gasp, my eyes prickling with pain and frustration as I huddle against him.
The spell is broken.
I’m magically able to move again, now that I don’t have to work so hard to hold myself up. The reprieve gives me that little bit of strength I have to lean into him and clutch the coat of his handsome black suit of fine-woven wool.
I bury my face in the whisper-soft linen of his dress shirt and gird my stomach.
It’d be just my luck to throw up on him right now.
Thank God his hold eases the nausea away.
I feel him bend over, and his breaths against my neck, my ear, my hair.
“I’m sorry,” he says. It’s not quite a whisper. I don’t think a voice this deep can whisper. “Cover your ears, Elle. I need to be loud, and I don’t want to hurt you.”
I don’t understand, but I obediently lift my shaking hands up and press them against my ears. The sound from outside mutes into a dull roar, while the ringing in my head amplifies, reverberating off my eardrums.
Even my palms can’t stop me from hearing August clearly.
That dark, heady voice rises for the first time since I’ve met him.
Now it’s a strong, ringing shout.
And maybe my senses are a little warped, but he sounds pissed.
He sounds protective.
He sounds like he’s about to start chopping heads.
For me?
“Stop your goddamned cameras right now,” August snaps. His tone says there will be hell to pay for anyone who disobeys. “Every last one of you. Shut them off and shut your yaps. Show me a single one of you has common sense, empathy, humanity.” He’s so condemning. Icicles stab every syllable, and I’m just glad he’s not mad at me, when I might just find a reason to be nervous around him after all. “I just told you my fiancée suffers debilitating migraines that can be triggered by bright lights and loud noises—and you immediately bombard her?” His hold on me tightens, gathering me closer in his storming embrace. I think he’s intentionally shielding me from their sight. “Don’t make us regret wasting our time today. You’ve got your story. You have the truth to counterbalance the shit-eating rumors you vermin thrive on. We’re done here, and you soulless assholes are dismissed.”
Whoa.
I don’t hear a single camera click now, though a few media hacks still have their phones on silent, quietly snapping shots.
