It’s difficult, but I manage to take in a short, shaky inhale.
“Good,” he praises quietly, his eyes still not leaving mine. “Breathe out and in again for me, slower this time.”
I do as he says, this breath slightly less restrictive than the last. We do this several more times until the last of the black dots recede and I’m no longer in danger of blacking out or worse, raging out.
“Good girl,” he tells me as his thumb catches another tear that falls free. “Tell me what happened.”
“The storm…” I say, trying to swallow around a thick tongue. “My parents crashed during a storm like this. The road was flooded, and the car that hit them couldn’t stop, and they…”
When my breath hitches, he moves one of his hands to circle my neck and lets his thumb caress the length of my strangled throat until the rocks gathered there can be swallowed down. “They died and...I wanted to die too,” I say, feeling both shame and relief at the admission. “I hate storms. They trigger me. Like I feel the pain and loss all over again with every raindrop and thunder clash. No matter how hard I try to stop it, the storms bring me right back to that night almost ten years ago,” I finish, feeling defeated, hating how I have to relive that over and over again.
I hate how I must look to him at this moment. Weak. A blubbering mess. A pathetic puddle of grief and pain, set off by something as natural as a rainstorm.
“Look at me, Delta,” Iceman says, and I immediately lift my eyes to his. I ready myself for the it’s okay or the I’m sorry or even the pull it together, we’re in fucking Purgatory pep talk.
But Iceman doesn’t say any of that.
Ice-blue eyes look at me like he can see right down to my very soul. “We will weather the storm with you. Always.”
My eyes fill.
How can this demon, who’s only known me for a short time, speak such perfect words?
He leans forward and presses his lips against both cheeks, like he’s happy to take on the bitterly brined streaks of my sadness.
I practically fall forward against him, hugging him hard, settling my ear against his chest. “I’m sorry,” I whisper, not just to him, but to all four of my guys. “I’m so embarrassed,” I admit, keeping my face buried against Iceman, not yet ready to face the rest of the room. I’m utterly humiliated to have had such a personal, acute breakdown in front of all of these people.
“You have nothing to apologize for,” Iceman tells me.
“He’s right,” Echo says, and I lift my head up enough to see that he’s kneeling on the ground too, while Crux is sitting beside me on the chair, and Jerif is standing, arms crossed and face pissed as he looks out at the room, like he’s just daring anyone to say anything. I love him for that.
“Yeah, no apologizing, and don’t be embarrassed,” Crux tells me. I notice that my left wing has curved around him, like it’s trying to hug him close. He doesn’t even flinch when the feathers wrap all the way around to his front, the tips brushing along his crotch like they’re trying to flirt.
I puff out an exasperated breath and try to bat them away. They pull back slightly, like they’re sulking, and Crux’s green eyes glitter with amusement. “I think they like me.”
“Well, at least they like someone. I think they just like to fuck with me,” I mumble before sitting up straight and taking a calming breath.
I wish I had some more of that hump blood to pour on my scythe right about now. Escaping through a portal that makes the ground swallow me whole and letting me run away from the embarrassing panic attack I just had would be nice. But that’s just not in the cards for me. I’m here for answers, and breakdown aside, I need to get them.
I try to comb down my frazzled hair, and I wipe my cheeks with my hand before swiping beneath both eyes. My face feels tight and shaky, but I give them a little smile. “How do I look?” I ask quietly. “Am I sporting the I just had a meltdown in Purgatory look?”
“You look beautiful,” Iceman assures me.
“A little splotchy,” Echo teases.
I reach forward and bat him away with my hand, but I’m inwardly grateful for his levity to break up the heavy moment. He pulls me into him and pecks me quickly on the lips. I smile against his mouth and shed some of the apprehension and embarrassment still floating around me. I can still hear the rain, but at least the thunder has calmed down, and I try to shake away the chills that want to crawl up my skin.
I pull in a deep breath and focus as I scoot to the end of my seat. Jerif hands me my scythe, and I give him a small smile of thanks for watching over it while I lost my mind. Tazreel has once again taken up residence in the chair directly across the room, and Nefta is leaning against the arm of the sofa as far away from him as she can be.
“When did your parents die?” she asks me calmly, and for a brief moment, I’m grateful that she doesn’t do what Taz has been doing, and pretend she’s my parent. She’s nothing more to me than the person who gave birth to me and then walked away.
“I was nineteen,” I tell her, and she nods solemnly.
The vibe in the room is more sober, and as much fun as having a breakdown in front of everyone is, I’m at least glad that Nefta and Tazreel have stopped bickering. Maybe now I can get some answers.
I stare at Nefta expectantly, and like she knows there’s no getting out of it, she sighs and rubs at the back of her neck. “I am not
