Hard to be as afraid of this alpha as I probably should be when there's so much worry written all over what little I can see of his face.
He makes another soft growling sound, almost questioning, and takes one careful step into the room. Then another. Moving slowly, deliberately, like he's approaching a wounded animal that might bolt.
Maybe I would if I could move.
He's carrying a new black duffel bag. This one looks even more full than yesterday's care package. When he sets it down beside my nest, I catch a glimpse of more sports drinks, crackers, what looks like cans of soup.
He brought me more supplies.
In the middle of the night.
Because he knew I was sick.
I try to sit up straighter, to not look like a complete disaster covered in puke and sweat, but my body has other ideas. I end up slumping forward again and he catches me by the shoulders, my head flopping forward uselessly as I shiver violently enough that my teeth chatter.
Wraith makes a low, distressed sound in his throat and lifts me easily back into the nest, pulling my blankets around me. Much to my humiliation, he wipes at my face with a towel, then pours water from a bottle onto another and uses that one to finish cleaning me up.
Fuck,I wish he wouldn't do that. I'm going to die from freaking embarrassment if this wonderful mystery illness doesn't get me.
Then he crouches down beside my nest, making himself smaller, less threatening. Even with me up on the couch, he's eye level with me. He pulls off one of his fingerless gloves and I notice his hands and forearms are scarred, but not with a cut like the scar over his right eye. These are burns, maybe.
He reaches toward me slowly, giving me plenty of time to flinch away. When I don't—can't, really—his huge hand gently presses against my forehead.
I'm burning up. I know I am. But his touch feels cool and soothing against my fevered skin.
His eyes widen and he makes another concerned growling sound, reaching for the duffel bag to pull out a bottle of water and a packet of fever reducers. He shakes two pills into his scarred palm, then offers them to me with an expectant look.
I should probably question whether I should trust mystery pills from a stranger, labeled packet or not. But honestly? I'm too sick to overthink this.
I take the pills from his palm—his skin is warm and rough against my fingers—and he immediately uncaps the water bottle for me. I down the pills and take a few careful sips, my aching, burning throat protesting even that small amount.
When I lower the bottle, he's still watching me with those intense blue eyes. Waiting to see if I need anything else.
"Thank you," I whisper. "Can you hear? I know you can't speak."
He nods and reaches for the bag again. This time he pulls out a microwavable heating pad and what looks like a cold compress. He holds them both up, tilting his head in question.
I'm shivering so hard my whole body aches with it, so I point weakly at the heating pad.
He nods and disappears into the hallway. I hear the distant sound of a microwave—there's an old break room a few doors down that I sometimes use—and he's back within minutes, the heating pad warm and ready.
Instead of just handing it to me, he carefully tucks it against my lower back where I'm curled up, adjusting the blanket around me to keep the heat in. His movements are gentle, almost reverent, like he's afraid he'll break me if he's not careful enough.
It feels so good I could cry. The warmth seeps into my aching muscles, easing some of the violent shivering.
Wraith settles himself on the floor beside my nest, his back against the wall. Not crowding me, but close enough that I can reach him if I need to. He draws his knees up—his legs are so long, he still takes up half the small space—and watches me with that same concerned expression.
We stay like that for a while. Him watching over me, me trying not to throw up again. I feel like I should probably be more uncomfortable with this, but I'm so fuckingexhausted. And he's warm and solid and here, and some traitorous part of me wants to lean into that instead of push it away like I usually would.
"You don't have to stay," I manage to croak out between shivers.
He makes a firm, negative sound. A grunt that clearly meansnot happening.
"I'm sick and gross and stink and?—"
Another negative grunt, this one almost sounding offended that I'd suggest such a thing.
I huff out something that might be a laugh if I had the energy for it. "You're stubborn."
