Ella
When my panic attack finally eases and I can breathe again, I peek up at Sinclair, tears burning in my eyes. “I’m sorry.” I murmur weakly, hating that my stupid brain ruined our moment.
“Why the hell are you apologizing?” Sinclair counters, still petting me. He hadn’t let me go even once as I weathered the storm of anxiety and despair, only pulling the pillows and blankets of my nest closer so I would feel secure.
“Because I screwed everything up.” I explain thickly. “I was supposed to be helping you and I fell apart at a mere suggestion.” Shame is coursing through my veins, not because of the panic itself, but because of what it might mean: that I’m too fragile, too broken, to be Sinclair’s Luna.
“Ella, don’t be silly.” He replies, and though I understand he didn’t mean to dism
