Until Cassel kissed me some more, the tension didn't start unraveling.
With every touch of his lips, another layer of panic peeled off my skin.
The pain that had jabbed my heart like a splinter dulled, reluctantly receding, while the vice grip in my mind that was squeezing the blood from my brain slowly released, like somebody had opened the window in a room filled with stale air.
My breathing steadied.
The storm inside me began to dissipate.
Then I gradually cooled off.
Maybe Cassel noticed the change before I did.
He drew back, just far enough to regard me, and lifted his hand to my hair.
His fingers moved gently, gingerly, smoothing out my tangled strands, as though I was something breakable-terrified animal that would shy away if he touched me with a heavy hand.
The touch was slow and rhythmic, almost mechanical, like somebody stroking a nervous cat.
"What are you doing? Move your hand-your hand is heavy," I muttered in a nasal tone.
