“My smart woman… always trying to escape me,” he says in a groggy voice.
Escape wasn’t even on my mind.
“Vian, please.”
His lids flutter closed, but I slap his cheek, and he opens those mesmerizing blue eyes that appear glassy now. “Let me die then.”
I nudge him onto his back, noticing his wound pulsing and not ruling out an infection. “Did you take any medicine?”
“No.”
“Ugh, you stubborn idiot. The medications aren’t just for pain. The doctor prescribed you antibiotics too.”
Sheer frustration kicks me into action. I roll out of bed and switch on the light, a golden hue bathing the room. Inside the bathroom, I pick up a bottle of pills the doctor prescribed and the medical kit, then return to his side.
I place them on his nightstand and rush to the kitchen for a glass of water. Then I help him sit straighter, waiting for him to swallow the medicine while I move to sew him again.
“I swear to God, if you leave this bed in the next few days, I’m going to cuff you to it.”
He licks his lips. “I love the idea.”
“It’s the fever talking because it wouldn’t be for pleasure.”
“Cruel woman,” he groans.
“I just don’t like you undoing my work.”
“Just admit it, Zara. There’s a reason for that, baby. It’s called love.”
“Don’t piss off the only person who can keep you alive,” I snap, annoyance and concern shooting through my veins.
He falls back asleep, but it’s not like I can sleep not knowing if his fever will rise some more. Until the medicine works, I am left in a merciless limbo.
Every half hour, I take his temperature, and even though it hasn’t risen, it goes down far too slowly. I lower my face to his just to hear him breathing. Even with proof that he’s alive, I can’t relax.
All night, I rotate between wetting two cloths, placing them on his forehead and feet, and giving him water to hydrate.
He will not die from a bloody infection, but of old age regretting losing me while I entertain a lover on the side.
Sure. In what life? The idea alone sends bile straight to my throat, and I hurry to the toilet and throw up. Morning sickness is no joke.
After I puke my soul out, I look up and spot him in the mirror, standing in the doorway.
“What’s wrong?” he asks, worry thick in his voice.
“Your presence makes me nauseous,” I say, faking irritation not to give him ideas about my state. “That’s wrong. And you should be in bed.”
Does he listen? No, because he has been crafted to drive me wild. Instead, he palms my forehead, but my body temperature is normal. “It’s not a fever.”
“But you have one.” I push him out, knowing the only way he will stay in bed is if I accompany him. I am wasting so many good opportunities to end him.
“Food poisoning?” he asks, staring at me.
“I didn’t sleep all night watching your ass.”
The smile he regales me with is almost blinding. “You did. I wonder why?”
“Stop wondering so much,” I mumble and give him another pill.
