Charlotte's whole life, she had been sheltered. Spoiled. Protected from every harsh reality by the loving embrace of her family.
She had never witnessed violence.
She couldn't even watch horror movies—the mere suggestion of them was enough to send her running to her mother's arms.
And now the person she loved most in that world was sitting in front of her with his leg cut off.
Her body froze. Her lungs seized. Her vision narrowed to a single point—that horrible, gaping wound, that severed limb lying on the floor, that blood pooling and spreading and staining everything it touched.
She was having a panic attack. She couldn't breathe. She couldn't think. She couldn't—
"What's wrong, Charlotte?"
The voice came from the side, entirely untroubled.
"Did something happen? Why did you scream like that?"
Charlotte's eyes snapped to Mika, expecting to see him writhing in agony, his face contorted with the unimaginable pain of having his limb severed.
