Mattie meets me, giggling and rosy-cheeked in the mudroom, but the sight of us sobers her up fast. “What happened?” she asks.
“I’m a fucking idiot. Did you bring a blanket?”
She hands me her knee-length down coat. “I got you one better. But shouldn’t she go to the hospital?”
“Probably. But I’ve dealt with this before.” I lay her on the floor, careful to keep her horizontal.
“You have experience with hypothermia?”
“Personally. Do you know a safe path to the room Father put us in?”
“Not particularly, but he’s probably moved the cameras and mics to the areas closest to the ballroom.”
My sluggish brain should have figured that out myself. “Right. Of course. Thanks, Sparkles.”
“Text me if you need anything else.”
“Can you have Mary send up soup in an hour? Wait, no, hot cocoa. Tea, coffee? Shit, I don’t know.”
“She’ll know what you need.”
“Yeah. She will. Thanks.”
I wrap Clara in the down coat, tossing my blazer back over my shoulders as it warms me enough to shiver again. We take the back stairs, staying as far from the party as possible, my hands still struggling to keep her in my arms as chills ripple through me. Why am I such a fuckup? Shit.
She has to be okay.
There’s no plan to fix this if she isn’t okay. There’s just the end of everything.
The guys would never forgive me.Iwould never forgive me.
Fuck. At least she’s breathing.
But blue still coats her lips, despite being inside, wrapped head to heels in down.
Back in our room, I lay her on the bed, daring a palm to her cheek as some kind of prayer before I rush into the bathroom, hoping my father’s need to always look rich extends to this random guest room.
And it does.
I shove two towels into the towel warmer, striding back into the room, staring at the ceiling for the camera I know has to be there. Finding it, I yank it down, risking the wrath of my father as I take it to the bathroom and stomp on it. Then I pace betweenClara and the bathroom as I wait for the damn towel warmer to finish doing its thing. Once it dings, I jam two more towels in, then fold the warm ones, one to fit around her neck and one to fit over her chest. By the time I unzip the coat, my brain is finally working well enough to realize she’s still in the wet silk.
Digging through my bag for my kit is excruciating with my knuckles in the state they’re in, but who the fuck cares. I find my straight razor and, hating myself even more than I did a minute ago, cut her out of the dress, too scared to move her and risk the cold blood from her extremities making it to her heart and brain and killing her.
God fucking dammit.
Once she’s just in weird shorts-things and nothing else, I tuck the towels over her chest and neck, then zip her back into the down coat. Having run out of steps to take, I sit next to her on the bed, watching every breath she takes, waiting for her lips to go back to their dusky pink.
I’m switching out the towels for the third time when her lashes flutter against her cheeks.
“Clara?”
She blinks her eyes open, a shiver rippling through her, and I could cry. As her hazy gaze locks on mine, she chatters, tears running down her cheeks.
She tries to say something, and I stop her, leaning close to whisper in her ear. “No. Just rest. I’m going to get you some more warm towels, but I need you to lie flat and not move until you’re warm. Can you do that?”
A shaky nod is all she can manage, but the shivers are the best thing that could happen right now. Her body’s coming back, working to fix itself.
I trade out more towels, my hands aching, blood smeared across everything I’ve touched since I got in this room.
