Chapter 41
T he dining room is unrecognizable tonight. It’s still the same opulent room, but the people in it are different. They’re bustling. Everybody’s interacting, even Father. He never converses with Ryan or Edwin so jovially, but both men stayed at his insistence, serving themselves plates of ceviche. They’re not delusional enough to sit with us and eat the whole thing. Most likely they’ll scamper back into the kitchen for that, but for now, they’re in here talking and laughing with each other, as well as Crue, in between bites of tortilla chips.
My bodyguard’s not this conversational with anyone usually, at least not in the manor. If I was surprised by him this morning, I’m downright shocked right now. His teeth are showing, he’s smiling so big. I’ve only seen him like that toward me.
But now every time he looks my way, it dims the briefest amount. No one else would be able to notice it, but I do and I hate it. What did he do to the ceviche? He’s not going to eat it, is he? He hasn’t yet. I’ve been watching him more than the others. I don’t care about the others. I don’t care about anyone else in this room, in this house, in this state, just Crue. I can’t let anything happen to him. Not before…
Not until our time together is up. It’s already limited enough.
My stomach pangs with worry, not hunger. I can’t even think about eating right now. Not when I have to keep such a close eye on Crue.
I wish I never told him about Ryan. It’s not worth it. Ryan’s not worth it. I don’t even care what he did, not anymore. I’d swim in front of him a hundred more times if it meant Crue wasn’t in danger.
Why is he in danger? What did he do?
Crue puts a fish-covered chip up to his mouth.
Instinctively, I throw a hand out. “No!”
Everyone pauses to blink at me.
“Don’t eat it all. I changed my mind. I’d like to try some, too.”
Crue’s eyes widen at me and he shakes his head minutely.
I tilt mine back at him.
Ryan rushes to my other side, spooning ceviche next to my chicken breast.
“Miss Munreaux, I’m honored to—”
Crue pushes to his feet, towering over me. And Ryan. He’s tall and the chef is not.
“You hate citrus.”
“So?” I counter while staring at the chopped fish, onion, and cilantro, wishing it didn’t smell so much like lime juice.
“So why even bother? You know you’re gonna hate it.”
Yeah.
“Probably spit it right back out.”
It’ll be a struggle to keep it in for sure.
“My daughter has better manners than that, don’t you, Never?” my father asks rhetorically.
“Won’t it go to your hips though?”
Crue’s reaching now. I eat fish. I just don’t eat fish prepared in citrus baths.
It’s bad, whatever he did. But if he’s willing to put himself in danger, then so am I. Either both of us eat it, or neither of us do.
I glance up at him. “Cheer season’s over.”
Again, he shakes his head, his eyes a pendulum between mine as he begs silently with them.
I use mine to beg even harder. Don’t do this—whatever this is. Let them eat it alone. Let them puke and writhe in pain until their insides are desiccated. I don’t give a shit. Please, please, don’t eat it.
I lift a forkful of ceviche.
Or I will, too.
Several moments pass, neither of us blinking, until finally, Crue scoffs and tosses his chip on his plate, pieces of barracuda tumbling off it.
I lower my fork instantly.
“I guess I should’ve expected this. You have been eating everything in sight lately.”
Every man in the room gives my appearance offensive inspections except Edwin, who excuses himself a few steps backward in effort to blend in with the wall.
Newsflash: it doesn’t work.
My stare turns deadly. He’s resorting to weight-shaming me? That’s a very low blow.
“Is this true?” my father questions.
“So what if it is?” I counter. Unless we’re counting my recent intake of cum, I haven’t changed my eating habits whatsoever. But I will not be shamed either way.
“Take it away,” he instructs someone.
I tear my gaze from Crue’s in time to watch Ryan remove my entire plate.
“I didn’t eat!” I shout, my anger bubbling over.
“Apparently, you have. It’s for your own good. I will not have my daughter turn into a pig before she’s even wed.”
Crue’s frown is obvious even out of the corner of my eye.
This is his doing. He said that knowing my father would overreact. He should’ve known I would as well.
Standing quickly enough to knock my chair over, I swing an arm at Crue’s plate, smacking it off the table. It lands on the floor with a clatter.
Neither of us it is.
“Never!” Father booms. “What do you think you’re—”
“How’s that for manners, Father?” With a smile in place, I curtsy, then spin on my heel and leave the dining room a whole lot quieter than it was when I entered.
Hours later, I’m waiting for Crue’s knock on my door, letting me know it’s clear to come out and follow him into his for the night, but it never comes. By eleven o’clock, I break down and text him, but don’t get an immediate reply. Twelve o’clock, I still haven’t received any response. Half past one, my phone is silent but I am not. I’m trying not to hyperventilate but it’s not working.
Did he eat the ceviche after all?
I text him again.
When he still hasn’t responded fifteen minutes later, I eye the door between our bedrooms. I haven’t had to use it the last couple weeks. I get to sleep next to Crue with his permission now. Technically, it’s at his insistence. He hates me sleeping alone almost as much as I do.
He could’ve fallen asleep, I guess.
But the timing is just too coincidental.
He wasn’t actually mad at me, was he? I did him a favor. I would never let him put himself in danger for me. He knows that…right?
I’m going over there. Hopefully, he is just asleep.
I slide the door in the wall open, instantly discovering he’s not. He’s up…somewhere. His comforter is thrown back like he had to rush from bed, so he might’ve been asleep at one point.
The toilet flushes in his bathroom.
Hustling inside his room, I close the door behind me, then dart away from it as I wait for Crue to emerge from his bathroom.
Except he doesn’t.
I venture closer to the en suite, hearing retching once I’m a few feet away.
Groaning, I close the distance and press my forehead to the door before whispering, “You did eat it.”
He still could’ve texted me back and let me know. I would’ve come over regardless.
Would he have let me?
Obviously not or I would’ve been here already.
I wouldn’t want him to witness me with food poisoning either.
Not like he’d listen. He’s done plenty of things I didn’t want him to do, like wash my entire body. Every. Single. Inch. Including. Crevices.
The toilet flushes again, followed my more retching.
Tears blur my vision and I crumple to my knees, my palm on the door.
“I’m sorry,” I mouth, completely helpless.
I hate this. I hate this.
I hate Ryan. I hope he’s in worse shape. I hope they’re all in worse shape. Maybe not Edwin, but…I can’t really afford to give him any real thought. Not when all of mine are currently preoccupied with the man on the other side of this door.
Damn you, Crue Brantley, why did you eat the ceviche? He had an excuse not to. His plate was on the floor . He could’ve stormed after me. He normally never lets me out of sight. Why did he stick around this one time and get another serving?
He risked himself. He…sacrificed himself, for me. Again. He did the same thing when he thought his room was full of enraged yellow jackets.
And all I can do is sit here, crying. A lot of help I am. A lot of help he let me be by keeping me out.
I still got in though and I don’t have to be useless.
I search up food poisoning on my phone and how to treat it, not finding as much as I was hoping for.
“Ugh,” I growl as I get to my feet, wiping angrily at my eyes so I can see what I’m reading.
Unfortunately, there still isn’t much to go on.
It’s good that he’s puking it up. It would’ve been better if he puked sooner, like three hours ago.
Has he been puking that long?
I fight the urge to fall back into a heap on the floor. Crue would be strong for me. He would watch a damn how-to video for me. He would do whatever he needed to in order to ensure I was taken care of.
Even consume bad fish.
Leaving out his bedroom door—that randomly has a chair wedged under the knob—I run to the kitchen and grab a box of garbage bags, multiple waters, a bottle of pain reliever, and the activated charcoal I added to my list after seeing a viral post about brushing your teeth with it but never actually tried it. In my sprint back, I hear multiple pipes working at the same time and let a smile loose. He got them.
After placing the water and pain reliever on his nightstand, I empty Crue’s laundry basket, then fit the garbage bag over it before setting it next to his bed. I read that was better than a bowl. Much smaller of a splash zone.
Ew.
Now I have to figure out how to get the activated charcoal in him. If it were me, he would hold me down, stick it in my mouth, then cover my mouth until I swallowed it. He’s a lot bigger than I am though. He could flick me off like a flea.
Even when he’s sick and weak?
I don’t really want to find out. He’s already going through enough.
I bring my phone up and search the best ways to take activated charcoal, thankfully finding a much simpler solution—mixing it in water. It does say not to take any other medications for a couple hours after consumption, so while I pour in a healthy dose, I hide the bottle of pain reliever in Crue’s top drawer, that way it’s not even a possibility.
I think fluids are about all he’s going to be able to handle for a while anyway.
Returning to his bathroom, I don’t hear anything save for groaning, so I put my ear against the door.
“Crue? Can I come in?”
More groans are my answer…that I choose to interpret as a yes.
Inside, I find Crue sprawled out on the floor. His forehead’s sweaty and his complexion is greener than his eyes. My bodyguard is fucking green!
I instantly drop beside him, my eyes already leaking.
“I need you to drink this.”
He weakly pushes away the bottle in my hand, but I don’t care. He’s always pushy. Always making me compromise. He can do as I say this one time.
Not giving him a choice, I lift his head with a hand and bring the bottle to his mouth, pouring a trickle between his lips until they part enough for the water to get in.
He sputters, spraying black water everywhere, even at me.
My face wet with tears and spit, I press it to his, our noses touching as I say, “I need you to swallow it, okay? It’s supposed to help.”
“No,” he moans with a sharp head turn that almost pulls him out of my palm. “Can’t.”
“Yes, you can.” I readjust my hold on him, propping his head in the crook of my elbow. “You have to.”
“Uh-uh.”
“Damn you, Crue. You can’t tell me ‘no.’”
“Go away.” He twists his head again but doesn’t get anywhere this time.
I tighten my hold on him anyway, and sob, “I can’t.”
Why is he pushing me away? I’m trying to help.
His eyelids practically vibrate over his eyes as his body spasms.
Oh my Goddess.
“Kiss me.”
“Poison.”
“I know. I know.” That’s why he needs this activated charcoal in him. We’re probably past the point of absorption if it’s hit his stomach already, but it should help with elimination. “But you said if I begged and I’m begging. Kiss me, Crue.”
There’s no one else I’d rather poison me.
I pour a bunch of the black water in my own mouth, then fit my lips to his. It takes a few seconds for his lips to move even the slightest bit, but as soon as they do, I pry them open with mine before gently streaming the water into his mouth, pausing just long enough for him to swallow.
“Good boy,” I croon before waterfalling more in my mouth and repeating the process until I’ve gotten a quarter of the bottle in him.
Letting him rest for a moment, I look over at the toilet where he’s going to be headed next. It’s dirty and stinks and makes me want to die because I’ve never cleaned anything in my life and vomit has to be the worst-smelling thing on the planet, especially someone else’s, but there’s no one else here and so I have to clean it for him. Ugh. I have to.
Do I have to?
Crue would do it for me.
Get over yourself, Ever.
“Okay.” I steel my spine.
After I get Crue situated on his side, I hurry up and wipe the toilet down, my nose plugged the whole time, my eyes only at, like, half-mast. Talk about splash zone. The toilet’s smaller than some of our bowls.
I hear heaving before a splash and let my eyelids flutter to a close. He’s still lying on the floor. He couldn’t even sit up to make it to the toilet.
When I gather enough courage to peek over at Crue, there’s a chunky black puddle by his face.
Now I want to die.