“Misty. Tell me what’s wrong.” My voice is a plea as my hands run over her, looking for any signs of injury. Her dress clings around her thighs. Her breath catches with each inhale—she’s fucking crying. She’s not fucking fine. “I can’t breathe.” Her words are so low I barely hear them, but it’s her hands tearing at the bodice of her dress that gives away what she means. Within seconds, I have her freed from the soaking fabric, the top now hanging down to her waist. She’s taking hungry lungfuls of air like she hasn’t had one in hours.
☹️
