Mastered by Malone (Haven, Texas 6)

Except she’d made a vow never to talk to him again. Okay, that wasn’t going to be possible, but she was going to do her best to stay away from him. She tapped her pen against the pad of paper in her hand, looking down at her list with a frown. The only reason she was making one was because she didn’t want him sending one of his brothers to pick up whatever they thought she might need. She’d probably end up with twenty pairs of G-strings.

“Warning: the next story contains some disturbing images of the victims of a mass bombing in the. . . ” The rest of the announcement faded out as she reached frantically for the remote. But she was too late, the images flicked up on the screen.

She sucked a breath in, trying to stave off the black creeping into her vision. Spots danced in front of her eyes. Her hand fumbled the remote. Her fingers and toes grew numb, her lungs were starved for oxygen. She slid down, off the couch and curled in on herself, her head on her bent legs, her arms over the back of her head.

She couldn’t breathe.

“Mia! Fuck, Mia.” The words barely penetrated. She flushed hot then cold. “Mia, it’s all right. You’re okay. You’re safe. Just breathe. In and out.”

She tried. She really did. But her throat was so constricted, air didn’t want to make its way in.

Then she felt herself being moved. And her stomach instantly protested.

“Breathe for me, baby. You’re safe. You’re safe.”

But it wasn’t lack of air that was the problem now, it was the nausea bubbling in her gut. Vomit. She was going to vomit. She opened her mouth to warn Alec, right as she threw up all over herself and him. Immediately, she started to sob. That breath she’d been fighting for entered her lungs then left on a huge wail.

“Oh, God. I’m so sorry. Oh, God.”

“Sh, baby. Hush. Don’t cry. Fuck. Please, don’t cry. It’s all right. I’ve had worse.”

“W-worse?” she asked in a trembling voice as he carried her out of the room and down the hallway. Instead of heading for the downstairs bathroom he carried her upstairs. “How could there be w-worse?”

“Hush, Mia.”

“You’re going to get vomit everywhere—”

“Hush, Mia.”

“You should put me down and strip. I’m so—”

“Hush, Mia. I’m not going to tell you again.” His voice was soft but there was a hint of steel running through it.

And so she hushed. After all, she’d just vomited all over the man, the least she could damn well do was shut up.

Another quiet sob left her mouth as he carried her into his bedroom. The scent of him was stronger in here. Not a bad scent. Not at all. It was masculine. He smelled like the outdoors. Sometimes she wished she could wrap herself up in that scent.

Mortification warred with the lingering traces panic. Oh, God, he’d seen her in the middle of a panic attack. And she’d vomited all over him.

How was she ever going to look him in the face again?

He sat her on the counter in his bathroom. It was done in gray tile with white fixtures. It was simple, masculine, and it suited him.

“Wait there,” he told her. Then he moved over to the huge, walk-in shower, turning on the water. She took the opportunity to slide off the counter. She knew he didn’t really want her here. She’d just go back to her room and clean herself off, climb into bed, and try to forget that this ever happened.

Yeah. Good luck with that.

“Mia. Freeze.”

She stilled at the doorway.

“Jesus, I have never met a sub who had a harder time following direct orders.”

She got the feeling he was talking to himself, but she couldn’t help but comment as he grabbed hold of her and started to pull off her sweatshirt.

“I’m not a sub.”

“You spend your days trying your best to keep everyone happy, to give them what they need, usually at the expense of yourself.”