Page 67 of The Royal Art of Revenge

“She’s right,” Finn says, brushing his thumb back and forth across my shoulder. “Everything else will come in time. For today, you just need to be you. That’s more than enough, because you’re enough, Hattie.”

My cheeks are warm. “I just… I don’t want to let you down.”

“Impossible,” the Queen says. “You could never do that.”

Great.

Those aren’t high expectations at all…

CHAPTER FIFTEEN – HATTIE

I can’t breathe.

Everything is fuzzy, like the air itself is closing in on me, smothering me. My skin crawls with invisible assailants, and I try to smack at my arms, but my nails win, and I claw at them instead. My nails rake against the skin of my forearm, digging, digging, digging.

My vision is blurred by the tears that have risen, unbidden, and I stare at my arm. Stare as my fingers scrape and drag through the tender layers of skin, tearing at it until it breaks. Blood beads in tiny specks, and each pass of my nails drags that blood, smearing it into tiny streaks.

It helps.

The suffocating ache in my chest eases with every scratch. Each sting that dances through my nerves counteracts the pressure, and for a moment, my mind is clear enough to think one thing.

Meds.

I dig my nails into my arm, clutching the tender flesh there, and reach for my bedside table. If I release my arm, the pain will come back full force, and there’ll be no escaping this whirlpool of terror I’ve woken up in. I have just enough clarity to know that for sure.

There’s a strip of meds in the top drawer, and with my one free hand, I grab for it. My head is spinning, and I miss the handle on the first drawer, just barely brushing my fingers against it. I try again, this time looping one finger through the handle, and tug it open.

The box is on top.

I get it and shake it. The strips fall onto the floor, and I do the only thing I can do with my uncoordinated body—roll off the side of my bed to where the medicine is.

I hit the rug with a thump, and I finally release my arm. With shaking hands, I grab one of the blister packs and push on one of the bright pink tablets. It pops out, followed by another, and I pluck them from the floor, dropping them once in the process.

I throw them into my mouth and reach for my water bottle. Thank God past me was prepared for this, because I knock it right off the bedside table onto my bed. If that were a glass like usual, my bed would be soaked.

The pills taste vile as they disintegrate on my tongue, and it takes everything I have to grab the bottle, open it, and choke down the tablets with some water.

Then, I collapse against the side of the bed and close my eyes. As the meds begin to work, stopping the panic attack, I focus what little energy I have left on my breathing. Each cycle of breath goes from a harsh, short breath, to a longer, more controlled action. From anxious and uncontrollable to steady, slow, four-count breathing that brings me back to reality.

Shit.

I underestimated how badly that whole interview process would mess with me.

And I have a shoot today. It’s not a big one, and I’d rather not get puked on, but I hate to cancel newborn sessions. Plus, it’s one of the last few bookings I have left. With little over a week left until Finn’s birthday banquet and the official announcement of our engagement, I’ve already made the decision to cancel a lot of my later shoots.

It just wouldn’t be feasible to continue.

But I don’t want to stop until I absolutely must.

My legs are all shaky, and I use the bed to help me get up. I perch on the edge of it for a minute and drink some more water, then glance at my arm.

Ouch.

There’s no hiding those scratches.

Long sleeves it is. Thank God early spring is still cold enough for them.

I force myself into my adjoining bathroom and splash cold water on my face. I look like hell. There are dark circles under my eyes, and the rest of my face is deathly pale. Making myself look human to go and work today is going to be a herculean task.