“Don’t,” a deep voice snaps at me.
A hand presses gently into my shoulder, anchoring me back to the bed. The touch is cool against my overheated skin.
“Easy,” the voice adds, lower now. “You’ll pass out.”
I blink. Once. Twice.
Lorenzo swims into focus in fragments.
“You’re . . . loud,” I mumble.
His mouth twitches despite himself. “You’re delirious. Don’t flirt. It’s unbecoming.”
“I flirt beautifully,” I say before I cough so hard my chest burns.
He swears under his breath and reaches for a glass on the nightstand. Then he does something I don’t expect. He slides an arm behind my shoulders, lifts me to a seated position, and presses the rim to my lips.
“Drink,” he orders.
I do. Because I’m too tired to protest, and in truth, I know my body needs it. Cool water spills down my throat, and I moan without meaning to.
Lorenzo’s grip tightens around me. “Jesus.” He makes a weird grumbling sound in his chest. “Try not to sound like that unless you’re fully conscious.”
I glare at him . . . which is hard to do in my current state, and I instantly regret it. “You’re disgusting.”
“You married me,” he replies, easing me back down.
My vision swims again, and if I weren’t already lying down, I’m sure I’d have fallen. This is awful. I feel like shit. My skin feels too tight, like it doesn’t even belong to me.
“I feel . . . like I’m dying.” I groan, and even that hurts.
“Unfortunately,” he agrees. “That’s usually how illness works.”
I scowl, or at least try to. I’m pretty sure I look like a wounded animal that someone should take pity on.
I expect Lorenzo to leave, but surprisingly, he doesn’t leave. Instead, he reaches for my wrist, and his fingers press lightly against my pulse.
His brows knit. “How bad?” I ask, my voice slurring around the edges.
“You’ll live,” he answers.
I huff weakly. “Wonderful.”
My eyes start to shut, and I swear I hear him whisper that he won’t let anything happen to me as I drift off to sleep.
Time ceases to exist.
I’m in and out of consciousness for hours.
Eventually, I wake to a cool cloth being laid on my forehead.
At some point, my stomach rebels, and I barely register being lifted and held steady as I sip soup. I also vaguely recall.
“Slowly,” Lorenzo orders, not gentle but not cruel either. “You don’t want to get sick.”
I follow his orders, and when I’m done, he wipes my mouth. At some point, when he moves, I grab his wrist.
“Don’t leave,” I whisper, the words slipping out before I can stop them.
