CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE – FINN
“Your Royal Highness,” one of the maids says hurriedly. “She’s—”
“It’s fine, thank you.” I yank open the door and rush into the room. Harriet is sitting in the middle of the bed with her hands in her hair and her head bowed. Her harsh, ragged breaths fill the room, and a maid is sitting next to her, softly rubbing her back and whispering gentle words.
“Your Royal Highness.” The maid looks up at me. “I—I know Her Majesty said not to disturb you, but we can’t calm her, and we didn’t know what to do.”
“No, you did the right thing. Thank you for staying with her. You may leave now. I’ll be fine with her.”
She nods quickly and slides off the bed, giving Harriet one last worried look as she does.
A sob breaks free from Hattie, and I slide onto the bed in front of her. She’s facing right ahead, looking right at me, but she’s not seeing me. Her eyes are glassy and unfocused, as if she’s in a completely different place right now, locked in a world nobody else can break through into.
And I…
Shit.
I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how I can help her. I’ve never seen anyone having a panic attack before. I don’t know how to calm her down or what she needs. I didn’t even know this is something she deals with.
What the fuck am I supposed to do?
Is it like a nightmare where you don’t wake them? Should I disturb her or let her ride it out? Will it stop by itself? Can it stop by itself? Should I be calling a doctor for her right now?
She drags her hands from her hair, practically tugging it out of her scalp. Her hands form fists almost instantly in what I now know is her grounding action, and the way my heart clenches so tightly should be studied.
I hate this.
I don’t even know what she’s going through, what’s happening to her, what she’s thinking right now, but I hate that it’s bad enough that she has to hurt herself.
It wasn’t that long ago that she told me she’d been through hell.
That I wouldn’t be able to cope with what she’s dealt with.
I brushed it off. Underestimated her words. Thought she was exaggerating.
More fool me.
Tears are streaming out of her eyes, and I reach for her. I cup her face and brush away her tears with my thumbs. Her cheeks are searingly hot beneath my palms, and my stomach twists and tightens uncomfortably.
“Harriet,” I say softly, bringing my face level with hers. “Hattie.”
She blinks, her eyes momentarily clearing before glazing over again.
“Hattie.” I’m a little louder this time. “Come back to me, baby.”
She heaves in a breath, blinking at me.
“That’s it. You’re safe. It’s okay.”
“F—F…” Her gaze clears. “F—”
“Yeah, it’s me. I’m here. You’re okay.”
Her eyes fill with tears once again, and I catch one with my thumb before it can join the others that have stained her cheeks.
“What do you need?” I push some hair from her face, making sure to keep it from her eyes. “What do you need me to do to help you?”
“Meds.” The word escapes her lips on a gasp. “Ba—bag.”
Meds?
She has medicine for this?
How often must she deal with this?
Fuck. I know nothing about her. I thought I knew her well enough, but I don’t. I don’t know a fucking thing about her that truly matters.
I jump off the bed and quickly reach her things. “This bag?”
She looks around, then nods when she sees which one I’m holding. I hesitate. It’s instinctual. I’ve always been taught that you never go in a lady’s bag, much less rifle through the belongings in there.
Which is ridiculous.
Because that doesn’t matter right now.
I bring it over to the bed and tip the contents of it onto the end. A small hairbrush, a lipstick in her signature red, a half-empty container of mints, a roll-on perfume, a packet of tissues...
“Zip.” Another breathy word.
Zip?
I look inside the bag. There’s a zip compartment I hadn’t noticed, and I undo it. A handful of brightly coloured squares fall out as I grab blindly, and the remaining item left in there is a small strip of bright pink pills.
I bring them around to her, and she nods.
I pop out one, then another, and then a third at yet another nod from her.
There’s water on the bedside table, so I grab it before putting the little pills on her tongue.
She accepts the water as I raise the glass to her mouth, and she quickly swallows some down, almost choking on it as her panic attack persists.
And still, I don’t know what I can do to help her.
Is it just a matter of waiting? Will those meds stop this in its tracks? What about rubbing her back? Would touching her more overstimulate her or would it calm her down?
Just as my mind is about to go into full overdrive, she reaches for me. A gentle touch of her clenched fist to my stomach and one look into her exhausted, glassy eyes is all it takes for my body to take over.
I slide up next to her, opening my legs, and stretch them around her so she’s tucked between them. I pull her against my body, and she rests her head against my chest, the top of it just tickling under my chin. She fits so perfectly in my arms, even if her body is trembling from top to toe.
Her fists are still clenched. She’s still hurting herself, and I don’t know if it’s inevitable sting of pain in her palms or the meds that are slowly bringing her back to the here and now. I want it to be the meds. I want it to be anything other than what I know is the truth.
The pain.
It kills me that she has to do this to herself.
Hattie’s breathing slows. The harsh, short breaths of a few minutes ago are morphing into deeper, more controlled inhales and exhales, but even now, they’re not quite right.
“Four.”
Four?
What does she mean, four?
“Count,” she gasps.
“You want me to count to four?”
She jerks in what I assume is a nod.
“One, two, three, four.” I keep my voice low, my count slow. “Like that?”
Another jerk of her head.
“One, two, three, four,” I repeat. “One, two, three, four.”
I keep counting.
Over and over again. Same volume. Same pace. Same gentle cadence to my voice.
And I hear it. How she responds. How she uses my count to re-centre herself, to bring her breathing back to a stable, steady pace.
She breathes in for four.
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.
She never should have.
Her life should have been a fairytale. It should have been everything she ever could have dreamt of and more.
Instead, it was a nightmare. A horror movie. In ways I can’t possibly begin to fathom. In ways I will probably never know.
And, fuck.
If she’s right, if her hunch that Rosalyn was involved in her kidnapping is correct, I will burn that fucking house down myself.
If she was responsible for doing this to Harriet, her life won’t be worth living.
Hattie’s revenge will be child’s play compared to what I’ll do to her.
“Are you sure you can stay?” Her voice is small. Weak. Tired.
Broken.
As if she’s a burden.
“Yes. I’m sure.” I kiss her hair, tightening my hold on her as if it’ll bring her any closer than she already is. “Whatever you need, just tell me. Whether it’s talking, silence, sleeping... I’ve got all the time in the world for you, baby. Always will have.”
She presses her face against my chest, and her hand trembles where it’s gripping my shirt. “Can we lie down?”