She’s refused every meal I’ve taken her, four in total, and I’ve considered force feeding her more than once.
In my haste to get downstairs quickly, I don't notice when another door opens until I’m slamming into them.
Damon.
His eyes are locked on his phone, the same camera feed that plays on my phone live on his.
“What are you doing?” I ask, flicking my attention from his screen to his face.
“Nothing,” he snaps.
“Were you going to go check on her?”
My skin itches with the need to make sure Chloe is okay, but I’m intrigued by my brother’s reaction. He’s maintained for years how little he cares about her, and yet here he is, just as desperate to check on her as I am.
“No.” His jaw clenches hard, denial shining in his eyes.
As much as I would like to hang around here and prod him more, Chloe’s alone in a fucking cellar throwing up.
She needs me.
“Whatever,” I mumble, shoving past him and making my way downstairs.
I don’t pause until I reach the door of her cell, which I drag open as quickly as the heavy steel will allow.
Chloe doesn’t flinch at the sound, her head resting against her knees where she’s curled up on the hard concrete in front of the toilet.
Before I’ve made the conscious decision, I’m across the room. I drop down beside her and drag her into my lap.
Her weight settles some of the worry building in my chest, but when she leans into me instead of fighting, I know something’s wrong.
Fuck.
Maybe she’s sick. How quickly can malaria set in? There is no shortage of mosquitoes in Florida, maybe she was bitten by one.
“What’s going on, Sparrow?” I murmur, pressing my lips to her forehead.
She’s clammy, but I don’t think she has a fever. That’s a good sign…right?
I have no fucking clue. It’s been years since I’ve cared for another person. I’m out of practice.
“You have to let me go,” she murmurs, pressing to my chest weakly.
“Not going to happen.”
I reposition her with one arm beneath her knees, desperate to have her entire body off the hard ground.
How the fuck did I leave her down here? What kind of fucking monster am I that I’d rather the woman I love be locked up in a cold cell than stand up to my asshole family?
Something warm and sticky seeps onto my arm, and panic slams into me. As carefully as I can manage, I shift to see blood staining my skin.
“Baby, you’re bleeding. Where are you hurt?”
“Everywhere.”
“Did you cut yourself? Did someone hurt you?”
“No,” she breathes, her brow dipping as her entire body tenses.
