They went on like this until she’d finished her meal, then he gave hermore water, and helped her into the bathroom, per her demands.
“How are you feeling?” he asked.
“Weak but better. That was just like a bad flu, at least from my perspective. How areyou?”
His big arms wrapped around her from behind, and he met her gaze in the bathroom mirror. “I’ve never had the flu, but I thought you were going to die.”
Dark crescents adorned his eyes, and she placed her hands over his, squeezing, as she said, “We’re almost there, right? I’m sorry you had to go through that. Thank you for taking care of me.”
“Fern”—he turned her to face him and cupped her cheek in his palm—“I’m sorryyouhad to go through that. I’m so sorry, I didn’t know it was—”
“Elliott, I’m fine. I wasn’t going to die. I’ve had the flu before. It’s probably scarier to you because shifters never get sick.”
He grunted.
“I’m fine, I promise. Now get out so I can pee.”
“I helped you before.”
“Yeah, when I was at death’s door—”
He tossed his hands up. “I thought you said you weren’t dying!”
“I wasn’t, it’s a figure of speech. Get out. Also, is this our first fight?”
“This isn’t a fight,” he said, laughing as he lumbered to the door. He stepped through it, but didn’t close it all the way.
That was enough privacy for her. Taking a second, she stood in front of the floor-length mirror and lifted the hem of her long shirt—Elliott’s shirt. Her fingers found each of the four puncture wounds where he’d bitten her thigh, perfectly round pinkish scars that marked her as his forever. She touched each one again, grinning stupidly.
After freshening up, Fern considered a shower and reached into the cupboard for a towel when a wave of heat and dizziness overcame her. “Fuck.”
He was at her side in a second, having never really left at all. A steadying arm came around her waist as she inhaled. Her nostrils were stuck closed. Panicked, she opened her mouth and gasped.
“What are youfeeling?” Elliott asked, voice soft as he crouched to study her face.
She shrugged, flexing her fingers and toes. They were tight. “I have no idea. I feel weird, physically. Little things.”
Her tailbone pinched like she’d fallen on her ass, and her heart’s second rhythm was off on its own tangent.
“Did I just wheeze?” she asked, then heard it again, a squeak from her chest.
Rolling her shoulders back, her feet itched to move. Her palms landed on his chest, and she looked up at him. “Dance with me,” she demanded.
“Okay,” Elliott agreed through a surprised laugh, sweeping her into his arms and starting up a waltz.
She wanted to pillow fight, or for him to chase her down again, something fun. The memory of him—his bear—splashing beside her, gaining on her, coming for her, sent a river of heat coursing through Fern.
“You’re burning up.”
“I’m just horny,” she said. Then she chirped—or her chest did—and she stared up at Elliott with wide eyes. She didn’t want him to catch her; she wanted to chasehim.
He stopped their whirling dance to brush his fingers across her forehead. “It’s definitely a fever. The super compelling’s done. It ended when I bit you.”
“I need todosomething.”
“Like dance?”
“No. I’m hot. I need a bath,” she mumbled as a wave of non-horny heat assaulted her. He’d been right.
