Snow had started falling sometime between 1:30 and 2:30 in the morning of December 2nd.
I knew this because I'd woken up both before the stretch and afterward, both time periods plagued by panic attacks. The sleep I had managed to get in-between, though little, seemed miraculous now that I was awake for the fourth time in one night.
Heart racing, pulled the covers up to my neck. My knuckles turned white as I clung to the thick fabric.
Although I wanted to sit up — maybe slip out of bed and pace the mansion's floors — Jameson was still asleep beside me.
And he wasn't a deep sleeper.
Had he and I not just flown back home from Scotland and been afflicted with jet lag, I might have woken him. He was exhausted. Whenever Oren didn't travel with us, Jameson made it his mission to be my bodyguard — meaning that while I slept the entire plane ride home, Jameson had hardly blinked.
He was too protective.
As the panic began overwhelming my brain, it advanced to my body, too. Trembles walked down my spine and small tremors worked away at my limbs in five-second increments. I wondered, in my inner chaos, if this was what having a seizure felt like.
My teeth clattered loudly as the shaking progressed.
I clamped them together, but it was too late.
In half a second, Jameson had sat up, eyes wide open. It was scary, really, how alert he could become so fast.
But his eyes were wildly searching the room as if the noise had been made by an intruder and not the girl in his bed.
When his eyes settled on my weak, shaking body, his green eyes searched me to ensure I wasn't injured.
However, I was injured. Jameson just couldn't see it.
But he was certainly getting a glimpse, considering that my body was shaking harder now that he was watching me with hawk-eyes.
"Heiress?" His voice was gentle, soft enough to remind me that he wasn't just my boyfriend, but my best friend.
"I'm in pain," I managed.
Jameson drew me in. "What hurts?" His authority was back, his bodyguard instincts in full swing.
"My head."
His eyebrows creased. "Nightmare?"
"Panic attacks," I corrected.
As he settled a warm hand on my waist, his eyes widened at the rigorous tremors. "Plural?" he murmured.
"I've been waking up for hours," I admitted.
"You should have woken me." Jameson pulled my body into his contours, allowing for my shaking to bleed into him.
I was focusing too hard on not crying to respond.
He rubbed my back. As I began to control my breathing, Jameson's voice returned to its gentle whisper. "Avery."
"Yes?" My voice broke.
"You're safe, Heiress." He swung a leg over mine, and the pressure imitated a weighted blanket. "I'll keep you safe." His tone lowered as he added, quietly, "Always."
I forced a nod against his chest.
Jameson's hands traveled up my back, occasionally massaging my scalp. For a few minutes, I clung to him.
"Are you breathing?" he asked me.
"Sometimes."
He brought our foreheads together. "Inhale," he murmured.
I did.
"Exhale."
For several minutes, Jameson kept me in check by insuring I was breathing properly. The act of focusing on my oxygen led to my heart rate decreasing significantly.
When I was feeling better but simultaneously exhausted from the previous sequence of events, a couple tears slipped down my face. I didn't like to cry, even in front of Jameson.
His thumbs brushed them back, along with any stragglers.
"I hope you know, heiress," he murmured, "that I am very proud of you."
Somehow, that made me want to cry harder. "Why?"
"Because you're strong. You don't like to ask for help." Grasping my arms and meeting my eyes, he said, "even though I'm always willing to."
"You have enough to worry about."
"And ninety percent of those worries pertain to you," he said, smirking a little.
As the fear slowly began to leach from my body, I held onto him tightly. "That sounds miserable."
"It's a pleasure, actually." Jameson was smiling now, and I was beginning to as well. "I enjoy having an Avery Grambs in my life.
I met his eyes. "I'm a very risky gamble, you know."
But he shook his head. "Not to me."
