"Hold his head," I tell Bane. My voice comes out strained.
Bane cups Max's jaw—his hand looks huge against Max's face, fingers spanning from ear to ear. He tilts Max's head forward slightly, careful and gentle.
I reach for the water glass, and my hand is steadier than I expect it to be. I press the rim to Max's lips.
"Drink," I murmur against his ear, low and soft, the tone I'd use with a lover. "Come on, Max. Just a few sips."
He doesn't respond, doesn't move. I tilt the glass and let water touch his lips, wetting them. His mouth opens slightly—instinct, the body's automatic response. I pour slowly and watch his throat work as he swallows. Once. Twice. Three times.
"Good," I say, can't help myself. "That's good. You're doing good." The words feel too intimate, too revealing.
Zero's eyes flick to me, narrow and questioning. I don't meet his gaze.
I set down the glass and reach for the pills—ibuprofen, two of them, small and white in my palm. Getting him to swallow them is harder. I have to coax his mouth open, place them on his tongue, give him more water. His throat works once, then twice. I wait and watch, making sure they go down. They do.
"Good boy," I murmur, can't help it. "You're doing well." The words slip out before I can stop them.
Zero's eyebrows rise. Bane's jaw tightens. But neither of them says anything.
I grab the washcloth from the nightstand. It's cold. Soaked through. Water drips onto my jeans as I wring it out slightly.
I press it to Max's forehead. His temples. The back of his neck where his hair is damp with sweat.
He makes a small sound. Soft. Almost a whimper. Like the cold is both painful and relieving at the same time.
My chest tightens.
"You're okay," I murmur. Keep my voice low. Soothing. "I've got you. You're safe."
The words are for him. Even though he can't hear them. Even though he's unconscious.
I need to say them anyway.
I dab at the sweat on his face. His neck. The hollow of his throat where his pulse flutters visibly beneath pale skin.
Each pass of the cloth reveals more of that scent.
Stronger. Richer. More intoxicating.
It's coming from his skin. From the sweat I'm wiping away. From every pore.
I can't get enough of it.
Don't want to get enough of it.
Zero and Bane are watching me. I can feel their eyes. Their scrutiny. Their confusion and worry.
"Is he always like this?" Zero asks quietly. His voice is careful. Measured. Like he's trying not to spook me.
"Like what?"
"This sick. This—" He gestures vaguely at Max's limp body. "Out of it."
"How would I know? He's been locked in his room for two weeks. We just met him." The words come out sharper than I intend.
Defensive.
"Still." Bane shifts his weight. Restless. He's standing at the foot of the bed now, hands shoved in his pockets. "This isn't normal. People don't just collapse like this."
