Page 50 of The Knockout Rule

Images of standing over his grave caught her breath. Earth filling that gaping hole, his mansion empty, her heart broken in half.

Which punch had done the most damage during his career? Which harrowing crash to the canvas had cast this die? Brutal memories followed her morbid thoughts: punches to his head, his big body staggering, blood dripping from his nose, blood under his eyes, his ribs taking a beating, fists connecting with his skull, his kidneys, his head snapping back again, and again, and again until she couldn’t fill her lungs with enough air. Her chest ached. She heard a ragged sound, only to realize it was her, trying to breathe through the sharp pain.

“Isla.” Eric. She’d forgotten about Eric. Now it was his head being hit, snapping back. The blood. His brilliant brain being jostled with every brutalizing punch.

The room took a dizzy spin. Her balance wavered.

“I’ve got you, milaya. Just breathe. I need you to breathe for me.”

Big arms came around her, but it was too much. Suffocating. She pushed at him, clawed at her T-shirt’s neckline. The room spun faster, walls closing in. She dropped to her knees and pressed her palms into the cool floor.

Ground. Firm. Real.

She squeezed her eyes shut, tried to count slowly from one, but she only made it to four. Her heart was pounding too loud and something wet nudged her cheek. Loud snorty sounds crowded her, followed by a slimy lick to her ear. Whit. That damn dog was coating her in his slobbery germs, but she didn’t shove him away. She sunk to sitting, pressed her face into his wrinkly neck. He pushed back and made the most ridiculous sounds until the pressure on her chest eased. She counted her breaths again, made it to ten this time, focused on the air filling her belly like a balloon. Her usual technique.

Inflate, deflate.

I am here. I am fine. Nothing bad is happening.

I have my face stuffed in a stinky, slobbery dog.

She eased her grip on Whit and chanced a glance up. Eric was crouched in front of her, the worry on his face heartbreaking. Everything about this man was heartbreaking.

She forced a swallow, wanted to say something, explain what just happened, but she couldn’t talk about that call, and she’d never told anyone about her attacks. Even now, sitting with Eric’s compassion aimed at her, she felt silly. Foolish. She was freaking out over intangible fears.

He reached forward and brushed a tear from her cheek. She hadn’t realized any had slipped out. “Should I call your dad?”

“What? No.” She moved out of touching distance. “I’m fine. It’s no big deal.”

Turning away from his scrutiny, she tried to scramble to her feet, but her legs weren’t cooperating. Her left knee buckled. She teetered. Instead of hitting the floor, she hit Eric. He caught her and folded her against his chest. “Your body’s still recovering, Isla. Relax a second.”

His arms had felt too oppressive before. Now? She wanted to sag into him, set up camp, curl up for the night. Or the year. Stake her territory and never leave. She wanted so much with Eric, and he was part of the reason she’d just had a meltdown.

* * *

Isla was shaking. Her skin was hot. Eric wanted to kiss the lingering tears off her face, hold her until she settled, or carry her upstairs, tuck her into his bed, dote on her, read her books until she fell asleep. Wake her up with his mouth on her, taste her, give her so much pleasure she never looked that scared again. “Was that a panic attack?”

When Eliza’s early asthma attacks had struck, he’d thought they’d been panic attacks: shortness of breath, fear building alongside the symptoms. It had been asthma in the end, but he recognized some similarities in Isla’s symptoms. He just wasn’t sure what had caused them.

She nodded but wouldn’t look at him.

He smoothed a hand down her back. “It’s nothing to be embarrassed about.”

“Because it’s totally normal to freak out for no reason.” She kept her head down, like she was embarrassed, her sullen vulnerability so unlike the strong woman he’d come to know.

He eased back farther, put two fingers under her chin, lifted her face up to his. “The body and mind are incredibly complex. We all have mental and physical issues we deal with, and what you experienced was real to you. There’s no shame in being human.”

Her lips wobbled. Another tear slipped out. “I’ve never told anyone,” she whispered.

Jesus. She really was as stubborn as her father, intent on carrying the world on her shoulders. “Well, I’m here and I’m listening. So, please tell me what triggers your attacks.”

She glanced at the phone she’d dropped on the floor. A tremor ran through her. Unwilling to let her sweep her episode under the proverbial rug, he lifted her into his arms and carried her to the treatment table. He laid her gently down, sat on the edge of the table next to her, keeping hold of her hands. “You’re not leaving here until you talk, milaya.” Darling.

He hadn’t planned for the Russian endearment to slip out before. He’d been worried about Isla, and it was simply how he felt. Protective of her, connected to her. Saying it felt right.

She sniffled and played with his fingers, measuring her palm to his, so tiny in comparison. “They started when I was thirteen. Stuff was bad at home between my folks. My mother pretty much told me she never wanted me, and my dad had this insane match. With Hector Narvarez?”

“I remember it.” The big men had traded bruising blows. A go-for-broke bloodbath that ended with Narvarez in a heap on the canvas and Swinging Graham Slade’s fist punched up in victory. Eric had found the match thrilling. Slade’s daughter wouldn’t have felt the same. “Your dad won, but it must have been rough to watch.”