Chapter 3
Francesca
“Go away,” I choked out as I searched for a cooler part of the bed. I woke up all sweaty from Stefan. He'd held me all night in his arms, and now I was paying for it.
“Francesca, why are you sweating so much?” he asked in his morning voice.
“Because you're too hot. Go away,” I whined and complained like a toddler. The bed over here was cooler. But not for long. It immediately heated up again. What was wrong with this bed? “Turn the furnace off. It's way too hot.”
My mouth was parched.
I needed water. I pushed up to sit, and my head spun. “Ugh,” I said, holding my poor, throbbing head with both hands.
“What's wrong?” Stefan asked. Just the sound of his voice made me want to slug him.
“Why are you yelling?” My head was seriously about to explode. Why couldn't he be quiet?
“I'm not yelling.” His hand touched my back, and I immediately recoiled.
“Well, isn't that a change,” I snapped at him.
As carefully as I could, I swung my legs over the side of the bed.
I needed water. So badly. But when I pushed off the bed, my head got so much worse.
A wave of horrible nausea hit me like a baseball bat to the skull.
Had I been run over by a truck and not realized it?
“Francesca, are you okay?” Stefan asked. I heard the bedsprings move.
“I'm fine,” I lied. “I just need water.” I turned, but I couldn't remember which way the door was. “Why is this room so big?” Before I knew it—my legs gave out, and I fell to my knees.
“Francesca!” Stefan shouted, making my head hurt even worse.
“Why can't you just shut up?” I tried to get up, but my arms and legs just weren't working in tandem. When I felt Stefan behind me, picking me up—the whole room rocked from side to side. And then I realized it wasn't the room.
It was me.
My stomach protested, and I felt hot, bile rise up.
“Oh, no. Bathroom. Bathroom!” I yelled. Or at least I thought I had yelled.
Thankfully, Stefan was good for something. In one second, we were on the move.
When I tell you, I barely made it—
I.
Barely.
Made.
It.
Stefan held my hair back as my stomach emptied.
And emptied.
And emptied.
He flushed a few times for me because I was unable to do anything other than what I was doing.
After I was done, Stefan handed me a warm washcloth while I sat on the cool bathroom tile.
“Thanks,” I choked out, my mouth still parched like I'd never felt before. The warm washcloth felt wonderful on my face.
“You must've caught it from the kids,” Stefan said as he leaned against the counter. “I'm sorry. They're cute but germy as fuck.”
I let out a dry cough and nodded. “I hope they're better. These things are usually just twenty-four-hour bugs.”
He nodded and looked me over. “Do you want to shower? Or go back to bed?”
I tried to swallow. “Bed. I can't possibly stand long enough to shower.”
His lips pursed, and he pushed away from the counter. “Let me change the sheets and get you a new shirt.” He walked out, and I looked down at myself. My T-shirt—well, technically Stefan's—was sticking to me like I'd joined a wet T-shirt contest.
Gross.
But there was absolutely nothing I could do about it. I'd never felt this wretched before. My legs were shaky, my body ached, and my head pounded.
I could hear Stefan in the bedroom taking off the sheets and putting new ones on. Hopefully, I didn't ruin his mattress.
A few minutes later, he came back into the bathroom. “Ready?” he asked and crouched down in front of me. His eyes—those kind eyes I knew—were back.
“I guess so.”
Then he scooped me up into his arms and carried me to bed. He sat me on the edge and said, “Sit up for a minute if you can.” He handed me an ice-cold bottle of water, and I'd never been so grateful for anything in my life.
“Thank you,” I croaked out and started crying. If I had any moisture left in my body, tears might have actually come out.
Stefan sighed and kissed my forehead. “Don't drink too much. Take small sips.” He walked away, and I took the time to open the bottle. Except I couldn't turn the cap. No matter how much I tried.
I cried harder, and that only made my head and body hurt more.
I didn't even notice when Stefan came back with a fresh T-shirt and a few wet washcloths in his hands.
“Chesca, what's wrong. Don't cry,” he crooned, dumping everything on the bedside table.
“I—I—” I handed him the still-closed water bottle.
He took it from me and opened it. “Here.” He held it to my lips, and I took a sip. The cold water gave me some relief.
When I was done, Stefan set the bottle on the bedside table, and then his hands went straight for the hem of my shirt. He lifted it halfway up before I even knew what was going on. “What are you doing?” I asked, but the T-shirt was gone, leaving only the cool air against my hot skin.
Stefan stared at me.
And stared at me.
And stared.
I could only imagine what I looked like. But why was he staring at me like he wanted to murder someone?
“What? You've never seen a sick, disgusting woman before?” I asked and leaned over to grab one of the washcloths. Stefan just stayed where he was.
Staring.
Unmoving.
Good grief.
I wiped my face again and then my neck. My hair was all sweaty, and it was going to remain that way until I could stand up on my own long enough to shower.
Stefan finally seemed to come out of a trance. His hand moved slowly to my torso, his fingers grazing my ribs. “Francesca. Who did this to you?” His voice sounded—eerie. As if he were reining in the uncontrollable rage he'd displayed yesterday.
I looked down and gasped.
Crap.
I tried—too late—to cover the bruises there. “It's nothing. I fell a while ago. You know how clumsy I am.” I attempted to brush it off. But from the way Stefan was glaring at me, I knew he didn't believe me at all.
“Don't lie to me.” His tone was scary, but I knew he wouldn't hurt me. “Who did that to you?”
I rolled my eyes, and wiped down my arms even though my skin still ached horribly.
“No one.” I gave him the same answer. “Can you wipe my back, please?” He took in a long, controlled breath and picked up a washcloth.
I turned a bit to make it easier for him.
The heat from my skin instantly dried any water the washcloth left behind.
After Stefan wiped my back, I quickly slipped on the new white T-shirt he'd brought out, covering up the bruises he couldn't stop looking at.
I lay back in bed and said, “Thank you.”
He nodded, and without saying a word, he undid the shorts I still had on and pulled them off. He picked up the last clean washcloth and started wiping the lower half of my body.
“Stefan, you don't have to—”
His eyes hit mine. “How many fuckin' times did you do this for me?” His voice cracked as his eyes welled up.
And mine would have done the same thing—if I had any water left in my body to spare. My eyes hurt as I gave him a sad smile. “A few.”
A forced laugh flew out of his mouth. “A lot more than that. And I appreciated it every single time.” Then he went back to his work of wiping me down. By the time he was done, I'd already drifted back to sleep. I didn't wake back up again until he slid into bed and spooned me.
“No, I'll get you sick, too. You should stay away from me. Go sleep in another room. There must be a dozen bedrooms or more in this place,” I muttered and pushed his hand away.
He chuckled and kissed my head. “More.”
I shook my head weakly. “How many are there?”
He laughed and sat his hand on my hip. “You can count them when you're better.”
I was almost asleep when I thought I heard him whisper, “I'll kill him for hurting you.”
Or, I might have dreamt it.