She nods again, satisfied, and leaves us with a list of instructions.
Once the curtain drifts again, I sag back against the pillows, every muscle worn out from the ordeal.
Petyr doesn’t let go of my hand, not even then. He’s still wired tight, ready to go to war with shadows, while all I can think about is how grateful I am that it wasn’t worse.
By the time we get back home, he’s already decided he’s taking care of me whether I like it or not.
Normally, I’d argue. Tonight I don’t have it in me. My body feels wrung out and heavy. I’m just grateful the nausea has stopped. No more running to the bathroom or shivering on the tile floor. That’s enough excitement for me.
He guides me upstairs with a steady hand at my back. When I start to move toward the bathroom, he shakes his head. “Sit. I’ll get what you need.”
I lower myself to the edge of the bed and give him a tired look. “Since when are you a nurse?”
“Since you scared the shit out of me,” he mutters, already in the bathroom. “Don’t move.”
He runs the water and brings me a damp cloth. The fabric is cool against my skin. I tip my head back and breathe slowly, letting myself find my balance again.
Once I’ve steadied a little, he helps me out of my clothes and puts me in a fresh pair of pajamas. His touch is careful, almost gentle. He brushes my hair back from my face and presses the cloth against my neck and chest until the heat fades from my skin.
“You don’t have to—” I start.
“Yes, I do.” His voice is low but certain. “You think I’m letting you collapse again? Not happening.”
I sigh, but I don’t argue. His hands are steady when they touch me, not rough or demanding. My cheeks heat remembering how those same hands weren’t gentle at all last night. How they pinned me, made me cry out until I couldn’t think.
I bite my lip, embarrassed by the way my body responds even now.
He catches the look on my face. “What?” he asks, brow raised.
“Nothing,” I mutter quickly and turn my head away. I’m too flustered to come up with a better excuse. Even just looking at Petyr is making me heat up for a wholly different reason.
He studies me a second longer, then goes back to dabbing my skin.
The tenderness feels dangerous. More than the cold version of him. It stirs something in me I don’t want stirred.
By the time I’m clean and dressed in fresh clothes, my eyes are half-shut.
He pulls the covers back and helps me settle against the pillows. His hand smooths the blanket over my stomach before he slips in on the other side.
“You comfortable?” he asks.
“Beats napping on the tiles,” I admit. “Thanks.”
He nods, but he’s staring at me like he’s still not convinced. “You’ll tell me if you feel off again.”
“Fine,” I mumble, though I know he won’t take my word for it. He never does.
I should resent it. The same man who locks me in rooms now tucks me into bed. But after the night I’ve had—after the fear twisting in me that something could have happened to the baby—I don’t resent it at all.
I let myself sink into the mattress, the warmth of his body close by.
For once, I don’t push him away.
As tired as I am, sleep doesn’t come. My body feels heavy, but my head won’t stop spinning. Every time I close my eyes, I see the bathroom floor again.
The fear that something was wrong with the baby sits heavy in my chest. Even though the doctor said we’re both fine, I can’t shake the feeling that there was something wrong with that food. Someone tampered with it.
I just wish I knew who.
