Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
SLOAN
I’m drifting in and out of a delirious sleep, and my skin feels like it's on fire, sweat soaking through the oversized t-shirt he gave me to wear.
"Asher," I whisper, my voice barely audible. My throat feels raw, scratchy, like I've been screaming for hours.
He stirs beside me, instantly alert. His hand finds my forehead, and I hear his sharp intake of breath.
"Jesus, Sloan. You're still burning up." His voice is tight with concern.
Everything feels distant and strange, like I'm viewing the world through someone else’s eyes.
He's up and moving immediately, disappearing into the bathroom and returning with a cool washcloth that he presses to my forehead. The relief is immediate but temporary. Within seconds, the cloth feels warm against my burning skin.
I slip away, falling into a fever dream.
The blizzard is unlike anything I've ever seen. Snow whips through the air in violent spirals, turning the world into a white void where up and down lose all meaning. I can't see more than a foot in front of me, but I keep running anyway, my bare feet numb against the frozen ground.
I have to get away. I have to escape before he finds me.
The cabin is somewhere behind me, growing smaller and more distant with every step. My lungs burn with each breath of frigid air, and ice crystals form on my eyelashes, but I don't stop. I can't stop. This is my chance… possibly my only chance.
But the cold is winning. I can feel hypothermia setting in, making my movements sluggish and uncoordinated. My vision starts to blur at the edges, and I stumble over roots and rocks hidden by the snow.
How long have I been running? The storm has disoriented me completely, and for all I know, I could be running in circles.
And then I hear it—my name carried on the wind, wrapping around me as it grows closer.
"Sloan!"
His voice cuts through the howling storm so easily—like a blade—and terror gives me the strength to keep going. I push harder, forcing my frozen legs to move faster even as feeling abandons my body entirely.
But he's gaining on me. Of course he is. He knows these woods and how to navigate in conditions that are completely foreign to me. And I'm leaving a trail in the snow that even a child could follow.
“Sloan, stop! You're going to freeze to death!"
The concern in his voice almost makes me hesitate. Almost.
My foot catches on something hidden beneath the snow, and I go down hard. Pain explodes through my ankle as I hit the ground, and when I try to get up, my leg won't support my weight.
The storm swirls around me as I lie there in the snow, and I can feel the cold seeping into my bones. This is how it ends, then.
"Sloan!"
He is so close I can almost feel the vibrations of his voice slicing through the air. I can vaguely see a dark shape moving toward me, closing in quickly as I begin to lose consciousness. I swear I’ve been here before. I’ve been in this exact moment.
"What were you thinking?" His voice is so gentle. So warm.
I have so many things I want to say. So many things I should say. But my lips are too numb to form words, and the cold has silenced me.
He carries me through the storm with sure, steady steps, somehow finding his way back to the cabin even through the blinding snow. The warmth blasts against my face as we step inside, and I start shivering uncontrollably as feeling fights to return to my frozen limbs.
He sets me down gently on the couch in front of the fireplace, then disappears to gather blankets. When he returns, his hands are infinite in their gentleness as he strips away my wet clothes and wraps me in nothing but a blanket and his arms.
"You could have died," he says softly, and there are tears in his eyes. Actual tears for a woman who just tried to escape him. "Don't you understand that? You could have died out there, and I would have lost you forever."
The anguish in his voice breaks something inside me. Because this is what love looks like to him—desperate, possessive, willing to destroy anything that threatens it. Twisted and wrong and yet completely sincere.
"I'm sorry," I whisper, and I mean it. Not sorry for trying to escape, but sorry for the pain in his eyes. Sorry that love has been so distorted for him and that he has never known it.
His hands cup my face, thumbs brushing away tears I didn't know I was crying. "I love you," he says, desperation in his features. "I love you more than anything in this world, and I can't lose you. Do you understand?"
I nod, because I do understand. I understand that he would burn the world down to keep me safe, even if the greatest threat to my safety is him.
And when he kisses me, when his mouth claims mine with a hungry tenderness, I kiss him back. Because in this dream world, I can admit what I'm too afraid to acknowledge when I'm awake—that part of me doesn't want to escape anymore.
Part of me wants to stay right here, in this cabin where I'm the center of someone's universe, where I'm obsessed over and loved to the ends of the earth.
His hands move over my body slowly, mapping every inch of skin like he's memorizing it. Like it’s his to worship. And when he touches me between my legs, when his fingers find the heat that's been building, I arch into his touch with a moan that's flooded with surrender.
"You're mine," he whispers against my throat, his voice rough with need. "Say it. Say you're mine."
"I'm yours," I breathe, and in this moment it feels like the truth.
When his fingers slide inside me, it's with a gentleness that threatens to destroy me completely. Slow and careful and so infinitely tender, like he's afraid I might break beneath him.
He pumps two fingers into me with increasing urgency, his breath hot against my ear as he whispers sweet words. And when my orgasm builds, when it crashes over me in waves that leave me gasping and shaking, I cry out his name like it’s the only name I’ve ever known.
I wake with a gasp, my body jolting back to life like I've been pulled from the water. For a moment I'm disoriented, caught between the intensity of the dream and a fever-hazed reality.
My shirt is soaked with sweat, clinging to my skin all over. But the greatest discomfort is the throbbing, aching heat between my legs.
I'm incredibly, undeniably, super fucking horny.
The dream felt so real, so vivid, that I can still feel the pressure of Asher's hands on my skin, and I can still taste his kiss on my lips.
And the worst part? I'm disappointed that it was just a dream.
"You're awake." Asher's voice comes from the chair beside the bed, and I turn to find him watching me with concern etched across his face. "How are you feeling?"
Confused. Aroused. Terrified by my own fucking dreams.
"Better," I lie, my voice still rough.
He reaches out to check my temperature again, his cool hand feeling wonderful against my overheated skin. "Still warm, but not as bad as before. You had me worried there for a while."
The genuine concern in his voice makes my chest tighten. I think the truth is, I like that he was worried and that my well-being matters to him.
"How long was I asleep?" I ask, trying to distract myself from the lingering heat the damn dream left behind.
"Most of the day. It's dark outside now." He brushes a strand of hair back from my face, the gesture achingly tender. "You were restless, talking in your sleep."
My whole body tenses. "What did I say?"
"Nothing coherent. You seemed to be dreaming about snow, about being cold." His eyes search my face, looking for something I can't identify. "And you said my name. Several times."
Heat floods my cheeks, and I hope he can't tell the difference between my fevered cheeks and my complete embarrassment. Because if he knew what kind of dream I was having…
Oh, God.
"I don't remember," I say quickly.
"Dreams can be strange when you have a fever," he says gently. "Your mind processes things differently when your body is fighting illness."
Is that what this is? Just fever-induced hallucinations that don't mean anything beyond the fact that I'm sick? Or is my subconscious trying to tell me something about my feelings that I'm not ready to acknowledge? That I can’t acknowledge.
The dream felt so real, so emotionally raw and honest, that it's hard to let go.
"Are you hungry?" he asks, apparently oblivious to my internal crisis. "I made soup. Nothing fancy, just chicken broth and vegetables, but it should be easy on your stomach."
The thought of food makes me slightly nauseous, but I know I need to eat something.
"Maybe a little," I say, but I’m really unsure about it.
He disappears and returns with a steaming bowl that smells better than I expected. Homemade, not from a can, which shouldn't surprise me at this point. Of course he knows how to make soup from scratch. And of course he's fully prepared to nurse me through illness in the middle of nowhere.
"Here," he says, settling on the edge of the bed with the bowl and spoon. "Let me help."
I want to protest that I can feed myself, but the truth is I'm still too shaky and weak from the fever.
The soup is perfect as he spoons it into my mouth, careful to not spill. Rich and nourishing without being overly heavy, exactly what my body needs. He feeds me slowly, patiently, pausing whenever I need to rest between spoonfuls.
"Thank you," I say when I've managed to finish about half the bowl. "For taking care of me."
"You don't need to thank me." His voice is soft. "Taking care of you isn't a burden, Sloan. It's a privilege."
I can hear the sincerity in his words. He really means it.
When was the last time someone took care of me when I was sick? Really took care of me, not just dropped off some medicine and checked in via text? Alex certainly never did.
But here's Asher, taking my temperature and bringing me homemade soup. Taking time away from whatever else he could be doing to sit beside my bed and make sure I'm comfortable.
It's wrong that it feels good.
"You look like you're thinking very hard about something," he observes, setting the bowl aside.
"Just trying to process everything." It's not a lie, exactly. "Being sick makes everything feel... different."
"Different how?"
I struggle to find words that won't reveal too much. "Simpler, maybe? Like all the complicated thoughts quiet down and there's just... this."
He nods like he understands exactly what I mean, but doesn’t say anything.
“What is this?" I ask, watching him closely.
He's quiet for a long moment, studying my face like he's deciding how much honesty he can afford. When he speaks, his voice is barely above a whisper.
"I've never felt for anyone what I feel for you.
Every day before I found you, I was just..
. existing. Going through the motions of being alive without actually living.
" His hand finds mine under the blankets, fingers intertwining with a gentleness that pulls at my heartstrings.
"And I would rather die than lose you now. "
The raw honesty in his voice steals my breath away. Because I can hear the truth in it, see the truth in it.
It makes me want to cry. For him, for me, for the impossible situation we've found ourselves in where his love feels both like salvation and damnation.
"Asher," I whisper, not sure what I'm going to say until the words spill out. "I don't know how to feel about any of this anymore."
"You don't have to know." His thumb traces across my knuckles, and the simple touch sends warmth spiraling through me. "Stop analyzing and planning and trying to figure out what everything means. Just... be here with me."
Be here with him. In this moment, in this bed, in this little life he's created for us. Stop fighting the pull between us and see what happens when I let go.
The haze of the fever makes it easier to consider, and after that dream…
"I'm scared," I admit, and then the confession tears from my throat before I can stop it. "Of how much I want you, even though I know I shouldn't."
His breath catches, and when he looks at me, there's something dark in his eyes. "Sloan..."
"Don't say anything," I whisper, already regretting my honesty. "I'm sick and confused and I don't know what I'm saying."
"You're saying what you've been afraid to admit." He leans closer, until his forehead rests against mine. "You're saying that this thing between us is real, whether you want it to be or not."
He's right, and we both know it. Whatever this is—Stockholm syndrome, trauma bonding, actual attraction—it's real.