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The shouted questions have faded too. Now there’s a vague murmur floating through the clasp of my fingers.
August’s hand curls against the small of my back, grabbing a handful of my dress and cardigan, and that’s when I realize it.
His fingers are shaking with fury.
No matter how sick I feel, my heart twists.
His voice quiets, speaking again in that thunder that soothes me.
“Lower your hands, Elle,” he says. “I’ll escort you through these hyenas, and we can sit in the car until you’re well enough to leave.”
I finally manage words, even if my voice sounds broken. “... thank you.”
I can’t help a bitter, awful smile, though I try to keep it to myself, wrinkling my lips and hiding my face against him a second longer.
So maybe I didn’t fuck this up after all.
At least now they’ll believe what happened at the airport, instead of the weird twisted story someone made up and ran with.
August holds me closer for a moment longer; then he slowly pulls away, shifting his grip to keep his arm firmly around my waist and drawing me against him.
I didn’t know how desperately I needed that.
Just like I need his hold to keep me up and keep me moving when my legs are made of water and everything keeps swaying.
By the time I open my eyes, the number of reporters and camera crew has doubled, then tripled. The shifting and blurring are making me feel seasick.
Slowly, one baby step at a time, we venture out from under the overhang.
August is gentle, shortening his steps and making sure I always have him to cling to and lean on for support the entire way.
God.
I swear, if this man ever tells me he’s not good again, I’m going to punch him for lying.
It’s awkward, the mumbling stillness as we slowly push past them. It’s worse when we hit the fullest patch of sunlight and I wince, slamming my eyes shut with a humiliating cry. I turn my face into August’s side and dig my fingers into his coat.
I wish I could feel the cold right now.
But everything is this fountain of pain.
“Shh,” August soothes. “Keep holding on, Elle. I’ll be your eyes. We’re almost there.”
My only answer is a whimper. It’s all I can grind out.
Still, I trust August to make sure my every step is sure and true.
But as we pass the loudest murmurs—I think where the thickest part of the crowd is, by the sound of it—a male voice calls out, loud and sharp enough to slice me in half.
“Mr. Marsha—”
I feel August go stone stiff against me.
He holds me tighter, both keeping me up and keeping me with him as he stops.
“Shut it,” he snarls. The sudden, almost frightened stillness of the plaza carries his voice like a bullet. “Every last one of you should be ashamed of yourselves. If Elle ends up in the hospital from this, I promise your bosses will be speaking to my lawyers.”
“August,” I whisper, even though I don’t fully know what I want to say to him.
