“Open the door!” Tristan says forcefully.
For fuck’s sake. He is not going to give up, is he? And actually, dying alone on the toilet kind of sucks, so whatever.
I heave myself to my feet. I’ve stripped most of my clothes off. My comfy inner robe is like a white nightgown and it helpfully falls down, covering my ass and making me decent with zero effort on my part.
Thankfully, despite the intense cramps, nothing has actually come out, so there is no mess to clean up.
I take one staggering step towards the door and then collapse weakly in a heap. It is actually quite comfortable down here. The marble is cooling against my burning skin.
A huge, splintering, cracking sound reverberates around the bathroom. I tilt my head just in time to see Tristan disintegrating the door with his second kick. Impressivestuff. This is Buckingham Palace. There are no cheap plywood doors here. That thing was solid oak and several inches thick.
He hurries over and drops down beside me. Then he pulls me onto his lap and feels my forehead. I rest my head on his pec and let out a sigh. This is much better than the floor.
“What are your symptoms?” he asks.
I groan. “It feels like a thousand daggers are cutting up my internal organs.”
A heavy silence falls. I’m not even sure if he is breathing. Okay, I was a little dramatic, but it wasn’t that bad.
“Did you anger Dyfri?”
What? Well, those words feel like a startling slap. I don’t think he is changing the subject. I think he is implying that Dyfri might have poisoned me. Fuck. I did make him angry.
I suck in a shaky breath. Wait. Dyfri said he’s spill the beans about me understanding Fey, if I ever pissed him off. Surely that would be his go to? He never said a word about poisoning me.
“No,” I say.
Shit. That didn’t sound very convincing.
“Ollie,” warns Tristan.
I sigh in defeat. “Yes.”
Tristan says something that I’m pretty sure is a very vulgar Fey swear word. It is not a word that Welsh shares, but his tone is clear enough.
“What did you do?” he demands.
“I brought up his crush on Blake,” I answer with a petulant sniff. It wasn’t that bad. Hardly worth poisoning someone over.
The tap drips, and the sound is surprisingly loud. Tristan shifts ever so slightly.
“Dyfri doesn’t have a crush on Blake,” he says, with confusion clear in his voice. “What exactly did you say?”
This bastard. It is not my fault he is unobservant and doesn’t know his own brother. There is no need to grill me over it. Especially not when I’m literally dying in his arms.
“I said that I knew I wasn’t his type, because his type is big strong men who can hold him down,” I snap.
Tristan’s lungs constrict so sharply that the motion moves me. His loud gasp is full of horror. He jumps to his feet, carrying me with him, and the world spins. He strides out of the bathroom with me still in his arms. I blink and now we are rushing down a hallway.
“Where are we going?” I ask.
“To Dyfri’s rooms.”
My jaw drops open. Tears threaten to prickle at my eyes. I should have expected this betrayal.
“I’m dying, and you’re going to make me apologise!” I shriek in outrage.
His grip on me tightens. “No. I am going to try to get the antidote.”
