Page 109 of The Royal Art of Revenge

She holds it for four.

She exhales for four.

She holds it for four.

Rinse and repeat, again and again.

The tension in her upper body slowly dissipates, and she relaxes against me a little. Even her hands, so tightly clenched just moments ago, loosen. Her white knuckles pinken as blood flow returns to her fingers, and instead of digging her nails into her palms, she folds her fingertips into my shirt.

The fabric stretches down and across my shoulders as she desperately grips it. Her fingers flex, and she curls into me, slowly moving until her ear is pressed against the left side of my chest. Her cheek is right over my heartbeat, and I keep quietly counting.

I push hair away from her face and stroke it, rhythmically running my fingers through the soft, golden strands. There are small knots here and there from where she was gripping it before, and I carefully work through them, easing the tiny matts apart until my fingers smoothly glide through where they once were.

“Thank you.” Her voice is little more than a hoarse whisper as she stretches her legs out.

I scoot us back so I’m leaning against the headboard and cradle her against me. “Are you feeling better?”

“Tired.” She curls her face into my chest. “I’m sorry. You were in a meeting. I—I tried to stop it, but—”

“Whoa. Hey.” I cup the side of her face, setting my thumb under her jaw, and tilt her head back so our gazes meet when I look down. “Take that back right now.”

Her eyes widen. “What do you mean?”

“You have nothing to apologise for. You had a panic attack, baby. You can’t control that. It isn’t your fault.”

“But I—” She stops, then lowers her gaze. “You’re right,” she murmurs. “It’s not… my fault.”

Has someone told her it’s her fault?

Has someone made her believe that a panic attack requires an apology? That she’s doing something wrong?

Fuck.

I know the answer to that.

The more I learn about what she’s been through, the more that simmering anger within me is fed.

I press my lips her to forehead and stare at the wall.

I know she wants revenge on her family. I know she wants to make them pay for what they’ve done to her—for things I have no idea about.

But I want to make them pay, too.

For every slight, every word, every ounce of hurt they’ve ever thrown her way, I want them to fucking pay.

“It’s okay,” I whisper, my lips brushing her forehead as I speak. “It’s okay now.”

She curls into me once more, still grasping my shirt like a lifeline. “Can you... Can you stay?”

“If that’s what you need.”

Hattie nods, and I feel it.

The moment the remaining tension leaves her body.

She sinks against me, exhaustion seeping from her every pore. Of all the ways I’ve seen her, this is the most vulnerable. A part of her I desperately wanted to see—a part I wish didn’t have to exist. Not because I hate it, but because it hurts her.

Because she shouldn’t have to deal with these intense emotions.