There’s no rude rebuttal. No sarcasm. And her tone . . .
I narrow my eyes.
“You hate reading when you’re tired,” I say, remembering her years ago saying that when she’s tired, her eyes hurt.
She huffs. “Congratulations. You know your wife.”
A little better. More like her normally hostile personality, but still, it’s weak.
I take a step toward her. “Are you okay?”
She rolls her eyes. “Yes. It’s just a headache, Lorenzo.”
Just when I’m about to believe her, she shifts her weight and wobbles.
I grab her automatically, one arm wrapping around her waist to steady her.
She feels warm.
I lift my free hand and press my palm to her forehead.
“Shit. You’re burning up.”
She frowns, blinking at me. “I’m fine.”
“You’re not,” I say flatly.
Before she can protest, I bend and scoop her up, one arm under her knees, the other braced across her back. She gasps, startled.
“What are you doing?” she demands, voice sharper now, but there’s no real bite behind it.
“You’re sick.” I turn toward the door. “And you’re going to bed.”
“I can walk—”
“No.”
She glares up at me, stubborn even when she has a fever. “You don’t get to—”
“I absolutely do.” I carry her out of the library. “Because you’re about five seconds from passing out, and I’m not letting that happen.”
She exhales, head tipping briefly against my shoulder. “You’re being dramatic.”
“And you’re sick.”
53
Victoria
I wakeup choking on heat.
And not the warm and cozy kind of heat. This is different. I feel like I’m suffocating. Like there is a fire under my skin, yet it feels like my bones are brittle and made of ice. It makes no sense.
I try to pry my eyes open, but nothing happens at first. When I finally get them open, my lids hurt from the effort. Hell, my whole body does.
Now up, I take a moment to evaluate the situation, quickly realizing that my sheets are damp, and my hair is sticking to my neck.
I try to sit up, but the room tilts, making me sway.
