Chapter 5
Consciousness returns in fragments of disjointed sensations floating in darkness.
Soft cotton beneath my fingers. The distant hum of traffic outside my window.
A cool cloth covering my eyes and forehead.
A throbbing ache on the side of my head.
The scent of unfamiliar cologne mingled with the medicinal sting of mentholated ointment.
My tongue feels swollen, my throat parched as desert sand.
Second comes the realization I’m not alone.
“Saint?” I ask in foggy confusion.
I don’t remember calling him to come take care of me, though, and he doesn’t wear cologne. My heart accelerates as panic surges through me, and I reach up to pull away the cloth blocking my vision, needing to identify who’s in my apartment.
A large, warm hand catches my wrist mid-motion, holding it with gentle but unmovable pressure.
“Don’t,” comes a deep rumble beside me. “Your fever’s still high. The cloth is helping.”
I freeze. That’s not Saint, though the man is just as familiar to me. I’ve just never heard him in person. He’s always been separated from me by my laptop screen.
“GentlemanX?” I croak.
“You recognize me this time.” His grip on my wrist softens but doesn’t release. “That’s a good sign.”
My breathing quickens. “How are you here? Where am I?”
“You’re still in your apartment.” His thumb moves in small circles over my pulse point, soothing despite my rising panic. “Your bedroom, specifically. You passed out during our call.”
I try to sit up, but a wave of dizziness forces me back down. “That doesn’t explain how you’re physically here.”
The mattress dips as he shifts his weight, the springs creaking softly beneath us. The hand not holding my wrist adjusts the washcloth, his fingers brushing my temple.
“I got worried when you collapsed,” he continues, closer now. “You hit your head on the table, and when you remained unresponsive, I had to make a decision.”
My free hand clutches the blanket covering me. “You shouldn’t be here. No one except Saint can get into my apartment.”
A pause follows, before he sighs, a heavy sound laden with resignation. “I’ve known where you live for some time, Elliot.”
“How did you—” A coughing fit interrupts me, each spasm sending pain slicing through me.
The mattress dips as he shifts his weight, and an arm slides behind my shoulders, lifting me. A cool glass presses against my lips.
“Drink,” he instructs. “Slowly.”
I obey, water soothing my throat. The room spins even behind the washcloth, and I clutch at his arm.
When the water glass withdraws, I lick my lips, trying to formulate questions through the fog in my brain. “How are you here?”
A sigh brushes past my ear. “I recognize patterns. The view from your window matches the Solace building on Park Street. The corner of your kitchen had a delivery menu for Bamboo Garden, which only delivers to three neighborhoods. Your streams sometimes catch the movie theater sign reflection in your mirror.”
Fear coils in my stomach. This man pieced together my location from fragments in the background of my videos.
“Please believe that, if you hadn’t passed out, I never would have crossed the line like this.” He pauses. “I panicked when you were unresponsive, woke up your building manager, and convinced him to do a wellness check.”
“Convinced?”
“I may have implied we were dating,” he admits without apology. “We found you unconscious on the floor with a temperature of 104. I paid for a private doctor to come rather than an ambulance.”
My fingers trace up to my inner elbow, where they bump over a small bandage. “You had someone put an IV in me while I was unconscious?”
“You were severely dehydrated. The doctor administered fluids, antibiotics, and medicine for the fever.” His weight shifts on the mattress. “He said it was likely influenza. There’s been a bad virus going around.”
“You invaded my privacy.” The accusation lacks heat, undermined by the way I still grip his arm.
“Yes.” No denial, no excuses. “I was terrified when you hit your head. For all I knew, you were dead.”
“How long was I out?” I ask.
“Almost eighteen hours.” He smooths back my hair. “The fever broke about four hours ago, but you kept sleeping.”
Eighteen hours. GentlemanX has been in my apartment, watching over me, for almost a full day. The thought should terrify me more than it does.
“Why don’t you want me to take off the washcloth?” I reach up once more, slower this time.
His hand catches mine again. “So I can stay anonymous. I’d prefer if you didn’t see my face.”
I process this. After collapsing online, hitting my head, and waking to a stranger in my bedroom, his primary concern is maintaining his privacy. “Seriously?”
“I understand it’s an unusual request.” Tension tightens the hand that still clasps mine. “But it’s important to me.”
My head throbs, thoughts colliding. This man has seen me at my most vulnerable, has seen my apartment, and my unconscious body. Yet he wants to remain hidden.
“This washcloth is soaking wet,” I say finally. “If you want me blindfolded, at least let me use a proper one.”
“You want me to blindfold you?” he asks in surprise.
My lips curve despite everything. “If you’re going to do it, do it right. It’s in the top drawer of the nightstand.”
Silence stretches between us, then the mattress shifts as he stands. A drawer slides open, followed by the rustle of fabric as he lifts out the blindfold.
“You haven’t worn this in a long time.” He returns to the bed. “May I?”
I nod, feeling strangely safe. But when he continues to hesitate, I realize he’s waiting for verbal consent. “Yes. You may.”
His fingertips skim my hairline, gently lifting away the damp cloth.
For a moment, pure darkness remains as I keep my eyelids closed, savoring the strange intimacy of the moment.
Then the cool silk of my performance blindfold settles over my eyes, his fingers combing through my hair as he secures it.
His breath ghosts across my cheek. “Better?”
“Yes.” I reach up to touch the familiar fabric. “Much better.”
The blindfold confirms that this is real. GentlemanX is here, in my apartment, caring for me. A man who I’ve fantasized about, whose hands I’ve imagined on my body countless times. And now those hands are adjusting my pillows and checking my temperature.
Reality and fantasy blur into a reality I never expected, leaving me feverish in the care of a stranger I’ve known for years.
“Is the blindfold comfortable?” he asks.
“It’s fine.” I adjust the silk band to fall behind my ear. “I’m used to it.”
The mattress shifts as he straightens, his weight substantial enough to roll me toward him. My hip brushes what must be his thigh, and the contact sends an electric current through my fever-weakened body.
“The doctor left medication for you.” Plastic rattles as he shakes what sounds like a pill bottle. “Antibiotics and a fever reducer.”
“How much do I owe you for the doctor?” My fingers pick at a loose thread on my blanket. “And the medicine.”
“Nothing,” he says firmly. “Consider it covered by your private session fee.”
I snort, which turns into another cough. “Pretty sure my rates don’t cover house calls from private physicians.”
He ignores my comment. “Time for your medicine.”
Something small and round presses into my palm. A pill. Then another. I bring them to my mouth while his hand cups the back of my neck, lifting me forward. The touch sends shivers down my spine.
The rim of the glass returns to my lips. “Drink.”
I swallow the pills, hyper-aware of his fingers on my skin. They’re larger than I imagined, with a slight roughness to the pads. One thumb rests at the junction where my neck meets my shoulder, applying gentle pressure.
When I finish drinking, he lowers me back to the pillows, but his hand lingers at my neck for a moment longer.
“You should eat.” He stands, the mattress rising with his absence. “I made soup.”
“You cooked in my kitchen?” The idea of this stranger—this patron—moving through my private space while I was unconscious hits me anew.
It should be terrifying. It was terrifying when I thought of Travis Thornhill doing the same. But everything is different when it comes to GentlemanX.
“Nothing fancy. Just chicken broth with rice and vegetables.” His footsteps retreat, then return moments later. A warm, savory scent wafts toward me. “Can you sit up?”
I try, pushing up from the mattress with arms like noodles. My muscles tremble with the effort, head spinning from the slight elevation change.
“Let me help.” Before I can protest, his arm slides behind my back, another under my knees, and he lifts me like I weigh nothing in a move that steals my breath.
He props pillows against the headboard, arranging them to support my back and neck. My chest tightens at the careful attention. No one has ever cared for me like this. Not even Saint.
His breath tickles my ear. “Better?”
I turn my face into his neck, drawn by his pheromones. “Yes.”
His breath catches before he straightens, his hands falling away. A moment later, I hear the clink of a spoon on ceramic, then his weight settles beside me again.
“Open.” The command is soft but firm.
My pride rears up. “I can feed myself.”
He pauses before saying, “Of course.”
The weight of a bowl settles in my lap, warm through the blanket. His fingers wrap around mine, guiding them to the edge of the bowl, then to the spoon resting inside. The touch lingers, his skin warm against my knuckles.
I lift the spoon, liquid sloshing. My hand shakes, weakened from fever and dehydration. Before I can spill, his fingers return, steadying mine.
“Let me help,” he says again without judgment.
This time, I surrender, letting him guide the spoon to my mouth. The broth is a perfect blend of salty, herbal with the sharpness of ginger, and warm. I swallow and find myself opening for the next spoonful without prompting.
“Good?” he asks.
“Better than the instant ramen I usually eat when I’m sick.” The confession slips out unplanned.
“You should take better care of yourself,” he chastises with concern rather than criticism.
“I’d like to argue, but I can’t.” I open my mouth for another bite and swallow. “Saint told me to cancel, but I was being stubborn.”
“Is money really that tight for you?” he asks.
I hesitate, unsure how much I want to reveal. “Not always, but I have some unexpected expenses coming up, and…”
“And?” he prompts.
“I felt like crap, and I wanted to go to sleep listening to you talk.” It’s easier to admit now, behind the anonymity of the blindfold.
The spoon nudges past my lips. “You don’t have to perform right now. There’s no need to flatter me.”
Affronted, I jerk my chin back, and soup splatters down my chin.
A sigh escapes him, and his thumb brushes along my jaw, wiping away the mess before it can drip further. Despite my annoyance, the touch sends a shiver of awareness through me.
“That wasn’t flattery,” I rasp, catching his wrist before he can pull away. “If it were, I’d have said something clever, like…like… I don’t know. I’m too sick to think of anything.”
His hand stills in mine, his pulse steady beneath my fingers.
“I meant it,” I whisper, the blindfold allowing me to be honest. “When you talk to me, I feel safe. Like I can let go for a minute.”
A charged silence follows, but it’s not uncomfortable. When he speaks, it comes out in a contented Alpha rumble. “No one’s ever said that to me before.”
I tilt my head toward the sound of him, soup forgotten. “Then I’m glad I’m the first.”
We continue in silence, broken only by the clink of the spoon in the bowl and my swallowing. Each time his fingers brush mine, each time the spoon touches my lips, the intimate domesticity of the moment strikes me anew.
Without sight, every sound amplifies. The soft whisk of fabric as he shifts position. The gentle click of the spoon returning to the bowl. His breathing, controlled but quickening whenever our skin brushes.
“How long was I out, exactly?” I ask between spoonsful.
“You collapsed at ten forty-two last night. It’s now…” A pause as he checks the time. “It’s now four seventeen in the evening.”
“And you’ve been here the whole time?” The thought of him watching over me for so long makes me ache with the desire for more.
“Yes.” Simple, without elaboration.
The soup sits warm in my stomach. “What about your job?”
“I’ve been working remotely.” Fabric rustles as he shrugs. “My laptop is on your kitchen table.”
The image forms in my mind of GentlemanX sitting at my small thrift store table, surrounded by my unwashed dishes and takeout containers, typing on what’s probably a sleek, expensive laptop.
“The doctor said you’ve been pushing yourself too hard.” His voice tightens. “Your body was already struggling before the flu hit. He mentioned signs of extended sleep deprivation and poor nutrition. Too much ramen, perhaps?”
Heat rises to my cheeks. “Medical privacy is a thing, you know.”
“He was concerned.” The spoon touches my lips again. “As was I.”
I accept the bite, using the moment to gather my thoughts. “What else did he say?”
“That your Heat might be approaching earlier than expected. Stress and illness can trigger it prematurely.”
My stomach clenches. “Did you tell him I’m on suppressants?”
“Yes. He said they might be less effective right now, with your immune system compromised.”
The implications hang between us. An early Heat, while I’m still recovering from illness. Without functional suppressants. With an Alpha in my apartment.
“I should go,” he says, reading my silence correctly. “Once you’re stable.”
“No.” The word bursts from me before I can consider it. “I mean, I’ll need help. If what he says is true.”
The spoon pauses halfway to my mouth. “You don’t know me, Elliot.”
“We talk every week, sometimes multiple times.” I reach out, finding his wrist again. “And you’ve been here all night without taking advantage.”
His pulse jumps beneath my fingers. “That’s a low bar.”
“In my experience?” I squeeze his wrist gently. “It’s practically a miracle.”
The bowl lifts from my lap, followed by a soft thud as he sets it aside. His hand turns, capturing mine, thumb tracing patterns on my palm that send shivers up my arm.
“One more day,” he concedes. “To make sure the fever doesn’t return.”
Relief washes through me. “Okay.”
I should tell him to call Saint and not monopolize his time like this, but I’ve been fantasizing about GentlemanX for so long that I refuse to give up this chance to be with my favorite patron in person.
It only took me almost dying and consent to being blindfolded to do it.