Inside the car, Dominic yanked off the tea-gray glasses and tossed them onto the leather seat. Without the shield, his eyes remained half-closed, the pupils twitching fitfully beneath thin lids. The veins at his temples throbbed in rhythm with his ragged breathing.
Avery watched him from the side. Her palms still felt the cold sweat that had seeped from his skin back at the pier. She was a psychiatrist; she knew all too well the internal collapse a man obsessed with control experienced when his world went dark.
She could treat C-PTSD. She could anchor him through nightmares. But she couldn't fix his eyes.
"What are you thinking?" Dominic asked suddenly.
"Nothing." Avery looked away, her fingers interlacing instinctively.
"Your breathing is off." He remained leaned back, eyes shut. "Do
