I’m feeling worked up and exhausted; a dangerous combination. And I bet that Kyle is hating me right now. Hating that I’m the kind of woman who’s clearly out of control, emotional, and the type of annoying that most guys hate.

But I’m just too emotionally drained to actually care.

As he watches me, that intent blue stare seems to be boring right into my very soul. But it’s not as intrusive as I’d expect such a look. No, he seems… curious. Intrigued. Not judgmental. There’s something so… freeing about his attitude.

I don’t feel like a freak before him.

And it occurs to me that I’ve told him way more than I ever intended. He’s got so much information on me I begin to squirm in my seat. Why did I tell him all that private stuff? Why did I share medical information? Why did I think he needed details?

My pulse begins to thump in my ears and I stand up suddenly. He watches me, no reaction in his gaze. “I’m going to go,” I say, feeling like I’m going to vibrate apart as the trembling begins.

Behind me, I hear a half-sigh, half whine as Sentinel wakes and tries to alert me.

I glance over my shoulder at him, noticing how his ears are alert even though he’s too weak to lift his head. “I’m okay,” I tell him gently, but he whines in response. He’s going to hurt himself trying to help me. I’m hurting him.

With tears blurring my vision, I rush toward the back door. The cold outside wraps me up in tingling, white-hot pain as I step onto the concrete porch. Down the steps, I wrap my arms around myself as if I can hold in the emotions and heat and keep out the world.

Only when I’m in the safety of the mother in law suite do I plop down on the bed, beside the glass door. Bringing my knees to my chest, I wrap my arms around my knees and lower my forehead onto them.

Scalding hot tears flow and drip onto my pants.

Where did I leave my purse?

I vaguely recall dropping it on the bed in the other room, but that distance suddenly seems like an unsurmountable trek across a desert of death. Normally, I’d have Sentinel bring it to me so I could take my meds to slow my heart beat and ease the strain of the attack on my body.

But he’s only inches from death in another house with another person keeping him safe from me.

How the hell did my life go to pieces in the space of a few hours?

A sudden knock at the door startles me. I glance over as it slides open and Kyle’s kneeling at my side. “Do I need to call someone?” he asks in a low voice, his eyes studying me.

“I’m okay,” I gasp out, realizing how tight my chest is, how much pain is lapping at every nerve ending in my body, how my lungs feel like I’m sipping breaths of liquid fire. “I need my purse,” I whisper, mortified that he’s here, witnessing this breakdown. Nobody watches me have panic attacks. Well, not knowingly. They’re shameful, I hide out of sight for them. I refuse to let people know this is a thing I deal with.

But Kyle is on his feet and gone before my cheeks light on fire with shame. He’s back as quickly, my purse in hand. Without hesitation, he digs in while placing it beside me on the floor.

“Which one?” he asks, then before I can answer, he pulls out the blue bottle and reads the label. “This one?” he asks, and I nod, realizing that he’s a vet and has a passing knowledge of medications.

He pops it open and offer me two – as the label says – and is gone again, this time getting me a glass of water from the kitchen. I swallow the pills dry and he offers me the glass of water to chase them with.

I drink the entire glass, then tilt my head back to rest on the wall as I watch him. “How did you know?” I ask, hoping to divert my attention from the breakneck speed of my heartbeat, the faintness turning my every limb to jelly, or the trembling of my hands and legs.

“Symptoms,” he says simply, jerking his chin toward my hands.

“Do your dogs and cats act like this when they’re having panic attacks?” I ask dryly. It’s meant to be a joke, but I just sound like a bitch.

To my surprise, his lips curve slightly upward. “Training service dogs, remember?”

I nod. It makes sense. He’s around people who have PTSD and panic attacks, flashbacks, and likely a whole spectrum of reactions. Maybe I don’t look like a total freak to him. Maybe I’m just like the other broken-minded people he helps.

“My dad-” I whisper, the unwanted words just escaping my lips like a captured bird taking flight for freedom. “He hated me. He’d drink too much, he’d hurt me.” As the humiliating whispers fill the space between us, a strange change takes over Kyle. His spine snaps straight, his brows become dark slashes over his blue eyes, and his whole face becomes impassible granite.

And I know.

Like a PTSD sufferer sees themselves in the eyes of a similarly suffering stranger, I know he’s got his own trauma. Perhaps it’s not exactly the same as my own – obviously his outcome is nothing like mine – but he’s got something simmering behind his eyes that feels like I’m looking in a mirror.

I was wrong about him. I was all wrong. Totally wrong. He’s not a silver-spoon sucking, daddy funded, affluenza sufferer.

No, he’s got his own damn demons, and they’re eating him up as much as my own do. And with a blink, he shuts down and closes me out.