Chapter 38
The room wouldn't stop spinning.
Maybe it was the fever. Or maybe it was her.
Either way, I was losing my grip. My chest ached, my throat burned, every muscle screamed like I'd been dragged through hell. But none of that compared to the ache she left behind. Arabella.
That damn woman who'd crawled under my skin, set up camp in my bloodstream, and made me feel things I'd buried years ago.
I could still feel her touch from earlier, the shower, the steam, her hands steadying me when my body refused to. She'd looked at me like I wasn't a monster, like I wasn't a man who had blood on his hands and sins carved into his soul.
And that scared me more than death ever could.
I bit my lip, tasting the ghost of her.
God, even sick, delirious, I wanted her more than I wanted air. More than I wanted peace.
If she knew the thoughts running through my head, she'd probably shoot me in the head, and I'd let her. I'd smile while she did it. I'd thank her for it. Because wanting her felt like a sin I couldn't stop committing.
My obsession had teeth. And it was tearing me apart.
The age difference gnawed at me, too. Eight years older, yet when I looked at her, I was the one who felt small. Weak. She didn't even have to try; she just existed, and I obeyed. Her power over me was silent but absolute.
And I loved it.
God help me, I loved her.
The thought made me groan.
My fever climbed higher, turning the air into fire. Sweat soaked through the sheets, sticking to my back as my body trembled.
I closed my eyes, but all I saw was her.
Her smile earlier—soft, dangerous, real. The way she looked at Sanaa with warmth and then at me like she could see straight through my walls. Her voice. Her eyes. The way she said my name as if she shouldn't, like she was trying not to want me.
I rolled onto my side, clutching the sheets. The fever made everything sharper, every memory, every touch. Her fingers combed through my hair, brushing against my jaw.
The warmth of her breath when she'd leaned too close. She'd touched me like I wasn't the man who destroyed things by caring about them.
God, if only she knew.
I wanted her again. Even now. Weak. Burning. Barely breathing. I wanted to pull her onto me, taste her again, lose myself in her heat until I forgot the world existed.
She'd fight me, scratch, bite, push, and I'd take it. I'd take it all, because being destroyed by her would still feel better than being alive without her.
I groaned again. The fever had me by the throat now.
The door opened. My second-in-command stepped in, eyes widening slightly."Sir, you're burning up. You shouldn't be alone—"
I waved him off. My hand shook. "I'm fine." My voice was a rasp, barely human. "Nothing critical."
He didn't believe me. I saw it in his eyes.
"OUT."
My voice cracked, but the glare did the job. He left quickly, and I was alone again. Alone with the fever.
Alone with her.
My skin burned. My heartbeat wouldn't slow. I was too aware of everything—the air, the sheets, the emptiness beside me.
And her.
Always her.
Her lips on mine, her body pressed against me, her breath catching when I pulled her closer.
The memory of it drove me insane.
It shouldn't have meant anything, it should've been another fleeting sin, but it did.
It ruined me.
I muttered to myself, delirious. "If I'd been alone, she'd have killed me."
The words slurred out with a half-smile, bitter and fevered.
She could kill me.
I turned on my back, chest heaving. The fever made the world blur, but her face stayed clear. Her mouth. Her eyes. That stubborn defiance that both pissed me off and pulled me in deeper.
Even like this—burning, shaking, dying—I knew one thing with absolute certainty.
She had me.
Completely.
My obsession wasn't a passing thing; it was bone deep. My fever was hers now, my madness hers too.
And when she came back, because she would, I wouldn't stop myself this time. I'd take her. All of her. Weak or strong, I'd make her mine again.
I groaned, dragging a hand over my face. My voice came out cracked, nearly broken.
"I'm a bad man, Ara. But I'd die for you. I'd kill for you. I'd burn for you."
The clock ticked past one in the morning.Moonlight spilled across the floor.I looked up, and for a split second, I swore she was there. Standing by the door.
"Ara..." My voice came out broken.
The hallucination smiled. Cruel. Beautiful. Real.
"You're not real," I whispered.
She tilted her head. "Does that make it better or worse?"
I blinked, and she was gone. The room was empty again.
I laughed.
It was a quiet, broken laughter that sounded nothing like me.
Fever dreams. I was losing it.
I sank back into the bed, breathing heavily. The sheets were soaked. The world spun. My mind kept replaying her face, her scent, the heat of her skin.
My body wanted her. My soul feared her. And both sides were losing.
I turned my head to the side, staring at the glass of water on the nightstand. My hand shook when I reached for it. It slipped. Shattered.
"Perfect," I muttered. "Fucking perfect."
My reflection stared back at me from a shard of glass. Pale. Sweaty. Wild-eyed.
I didn't even recognize myself.
That's what she'd done.
She'd made me unrecognizable, even to me.
I pressed my hand to my chest, where my heart was pounding like a caged animal. The fever made it worse, but the truth was clear even through the delirium, she had me. Completely.
I closed my eyes again, and the fever dragged me under.
In the haze, I felt her beside me. Not the hallucination this time. Just... presence.
Her voice...soft, defiant, whispered in my ear."You're losing it, Old man."
My lips twitched. "I lost it the moment I met you."
I reached out, but my hand met nothing but air.
The phantom warmth faded. And for the first time in years, I wanted to beg. Not for forgiveness. Not for mercy. But for her.
I wanted her beside me when I woke up.
I wanted her to know what she'd done to me.
I turned my head toward the window. The moonlight cut across the floor, silver and cruel.
My fever spiked again. My breath came shallow.
I whispered her name once more, letting it anchor me as I drifted.
"Ara..."
My obsession.
My weakness.
Then, footsteps. A door clicking open.
"Dominic?"
Her voice. Low, careful.
I blinked hard. She stood there, half-shadow, hair loose, eyes softer than I'd ever seen them.
"Why are you here?" I rasped.
She stepped closer, ignoring the question. "You're burning up."
"It's a habit," I muttered.
She rolled her eyes and came to my bedside. "You look like hell."
"I feel worse."
She set a bowl down, steam curling into the air. "Eat something before you collapse."
I let her feed me. Slow, silent, careful.
The soup was warm, but I didn't care. I watched her instead. Her hands. The little frown between her brows.
When the bowl was empty, she reached for a towel, dabbing my forehead.
"You should sleep."
"Stay," I whispered.
She froze but didn't leave. Just sat down, head bowed. I could feel her breath. Hear it. Steady. Real.
My eyes drifted shut.
For the first time in days, the pain dulled. My heart slowed. Her presence pressed against the edges of my mind like light through fog.
I dreamt or thought I did—of her sitting beside me. Of her hand tracing the scar on my chest. Of her whispering something I couldn't catch.
I reached for her, fingers brushing air.
When I forced my eyes open again, the chair was empty.
No bowl. No towel. No scent.
Just the hum of the fan and the shadows moving across the ceiling.
I stared, my pulse stuttering.
"Ara?"
Nothing.
I pushed myself up, dizzy, vision splitting at the edges. The space where she'd sat was cold.
It hadn't happened.
It never happened.
A weak laugh escaped my throat. "Of course."
My body trembled, sweat dripping down my neck. Even my fever had started lying to me.
I fell back against the pillow, staring at the ceiling.
She hadn't come back, not tonight. Maybe not ever. But my mind wouldn't accept that. It kept replaying her voice, her warmth, her touch, until I didn't know what was real anymore.
The fever surged again, and through the haze, I heard her whisper. Or imagined it, soft, cruel, addictive.
"You'll never get rid of me, Old man."
My lips parted, a broken sound slipping out. "I know."
The clock blinked 2:03 a.m.
Outside, thunder rolled over the city, faint and distant.
Inside, I laid awake—fevered, half-delirious, smiling to no one.
Because maybe she wasn't here.
But she never really left either.
And somewhere in the blur between dream and sickness, I swore I saw her again, leaning over me, eyes dark and endless.
Then everything went quiet.
Black.
"Versace," I rasped into the dark. "You're killing me, and you don't even know it."