Lifting my arms, I pull the sweatshirt off and T-shirt off underneath. Inside my pack is my old sweatshirt, but before I grab that I take out the bandages from the outside pocket and wrap my palm.
Hurts like a bitch.
Which I’m reminded of again a second later when I stupidly use it to try to brush my hair—also now jelly-like—out of my eyes.
Fuck.
I need a shower.
But, that’s not going to happen, so I throw on the dry sweatshirt, then slip into the master bedroom. Rex has kicked off half the blankets and is coughing between muttering about someone named Mac. A muscle near my eye twitches.
Dropping my pack, I shut the door, then push the dresser in front of it. Every movement sends jolts of pain through my head and body.
The room becomes a twisted merry-go-round as I stumble over to the bed and crash onto the mattress, sliding under the covers. Rex doesn’t even flinch. I swallow hard and check his forehead. He's still burning up. My hands are icy, though, so it's hard to tell how bad it really is.
Turning carefully onto my back I touch my left eye, and fuck, it hurts. It's swollen shut. “Dammit.”
My fingers trail to the back of my sticky head. Even the lightest touch sends excruciating pain through my body. I can’t tell if my head’s bleeding or if it’s from that fucker after I killed him. Probably should’ve washed them.
But I could barely make it to the room let alone down the hall to the bathroom.
I don’t bother checking my neck— don’t want to feel those teeth marks. My jaw clenches as a few tears stream down my cheek and I wipe them. Did that fuck brand me with his bite?
Turning on my side, I close my eyes and hope by morning everything will be better. Only, Rex drapes an arm over me, kissing my neck.
Near the bite.
I squirm and try to wiggle away, the movement making my head hurt worse. “Rex, no."
His lips keep brushing my neck, hands creeping up under my sweatshirt. “Come on, Mac.”
"I said stop." I push back against him. "Rex, no!"
"Need to feel you around my cock, Mac. Please, baby."
Like hell.
I wrench away, tumbling off the bed, landing in a mess on the carpet.
A new pain joins in with the existing one, this time deep in my chest.
He said I’m his boy, so why is he thinking about someone else?
I don’t care how much pain I’m in or how cold it is. No fucking way am I staying in bed while he dreams about some other guy.
For once, I need him. Need to feel safe. And instead, the bastard’s dreaming about fucking someone else.
Someone who isn’t me.
I want to get up and punch him in the fucking face. I don’t care that he’s sick, or that the medicine might be causing his dreams.
Because I’m his boy.
He should be dreaming about me.
Pulling the hood of the sweatshirt over my head, I curl into a ball trying to keep as warm as possible.
I’m not sure how long I lay on the ground stewing, but a repeated thump catches my attention. I carefully turn my head up. Rex's arm is going wild, smacking the nightstand like it's got a mind of its own.
