Chapter Twenty-Seven
Lyra
Killian lets me go home when I wake up the following morning, handing me my phone—which Locke must’ve retrieved from the alleyway—and sending me home with a kiss on my forehead. Locke drives me home, but for once, I don’t bemoan the surveillance dressed up as protection.
I’m feeling crappy and feverish—probably a result of my contact with the cold ground—so I call Sarah to let her know I’ll be working remote today.
“Why?” she asks doubtfully. “You were fine yesterday.”
I worry my lower lip between my teeth. Sarah’s one of the biggest grudge-holders I’ve met in the industry, so she’s still not over the pushback I gave her. I can’t tell her the whole truth, but I can tell her the relevant parts to try to get some understanding from her.
“I was…” I clear my throat. “I was mugged last night, on my way home.”
Sarah inhales a soft gasp. “Oh God, are you okay? What happened? Did you go to the police?”
That’s a lot of questions I can’t answer.
“I’m alright. The subway stop nearest to the office was crowded by homeless drunk guys, my phone was dead, and there were no cabs around, so I walked to the next stop.
Got pulled into an alleyway by masked guys.
I got away, but they got a few good hits in.
” The cut under my eye is tiny—doesn’t require stitches and probably won’t scar.
My abs, on the other hand, ache like a motherfucker.
“Did you go to the police?” she presses.
I scoff. “I have no description of the guys, Sarah. They were wearing masks. I don’t want to go through the hassle of a police investigation; I just want to recover. I promise I’ll still get my stuff for work done—”
“Don’t worry about that,” she says dismissively. “Take care of yourself. Get better.” My chest warms, and hope that she’s gotten past our incident weeks ago flickers to life inside me, but then she dispels it. “I need you in good shape for your work with Killian.”
My jaw clenches. “Of course.”
“How’s it going, by the way? I know your due date is weeks away, but I hope you’re making good progress on the profile. It’ll be a four-page spread, maybe more.”
I’ve already finished the bullshit profile that praises Killian so much it’s nauseating. My real focus is the exposé, which’ll be my ticket away from Killian.
Something uncomfortable twists inside of me at the thought of harming him.
Something that feels dangerously close to guilt, which is completely preposterous.
Killian constantly reminds me of how low I am, how insignificant, and that he’s only after me for temporary sex.
He called me filth last night. The prospect of holding blackmail over his head should be exciting—I’d be getting him back for everything he’s done to me.
But still… the uncomfortable feeling doesn’t go away. So I lock it down, shove it in a cage, and throw away the key. I’m doing what I have to in order to protect myself; something I’ve done many times before.
“Lyra?” Sarah prompts.
Crap, I still haven’t said anything. “Sorry, I’m a bit spacey after last night. It’s going well, and I have a partial on the profile ready to go. Would you like to see it?”
“No, I trust you to do good work. You know your deadline.” She pauses. “Get better—let me know if you need anything. I can send a courier with some soup.”
She won’t even pretend to go out of her way for me. “I appreciate it, but I think I’m good. When do you want me back in the office?”
She thinks for a moment. “Next Monday. Your team can hold down the fort without you for now. If you can get some work done, it’d be appreciated; if not, that’s fine.” She hangs up without further ado.
I sink deeper into my couch, head pounding with a headache. It’d be so easy to go right to sleep, but I can’t leave my people hanging like that, so I pull my personal laptop on my lap and get through a few hours of work.
When the clock hits 3p.m., my entire body has begun to ache—a telltale sign that I’m getting sick—which only makes me want to work harder before I crash.
I finish up edits on the last batch of my novel, and manage to squeeze out another three thousand words before everything in front of me starts blurring together.
When I try to stand from the couch for some food, a wave of dizziness overcomes me, and I fall right back down on my ass. My eyes start to flutter closed, my exhaustion winning out, and that’s when I know I’m in for a rough couple of days.
Thundering knocks pierce my consciousness, forcing my eyes to crack open. I’m so tired the noise barely punctures my eardrums, and my entire body aches so intensely, I feel like I’ve been run over by a semi truck. And like that truck then hit reverse and ran me over again for good measure.
Each breath scrapes over my raw throat, bathing my entire being with pain. My breaths are closer to wheezes, and when I try to swallow, the pain is so intense I nearly throw up.
It’s dark outside; I must’ve slept away the entire afternoon. Slowly, I become aware of shouting beside the knocking. At first, I think Anna must be here to check on me—if she heard I got mugged from Sarah, she’d probably come straight over.
But the voice that’s shouting something unintelligible isn’t feminine—it’s masculine, and it’s a voice I’d know anywhere.
Killian.
I don’t have the strength to get up; the world’s spinning around me like a merry-go-round. Instead, I part my lips to call out for Killian to go away, but all that comes out is a wet, ragged coughing fit.
I’m sick-sick. Sicker than I’ve been in years. I must’ve caught something in that fucking alleyway.
I hear a locking mechanism sound, and then, the door bursts open. Killian stands there, panting like a bull, along with my landlord, who’s holding a set of keys.
Even in its fuzzy state, my brain manages to pick up on the fact that Killian called my landlord to get into my apartment. That makes me think I’ve been out longer than an afternoon, that I’ve missed something important.
“Oh, dear,” my landlord says, eyebrows raising. “Miss Stewart, are you alright?”
“Yeah,” I manage to say, but the word is scarcely a raspy croak. “Just sick.”
Killian’s frown morphs into a full-blown scowl. He glances at my landlord. “Thanks for the help. I’ll take it from here.”
My landlord doesn’t look even a little bit uneasy at letting Killian into my apartment. I guess I can’t blame him—Killian reeks of wealth, and has a way of making everyone around him feel like they’re privileged to be in his presence. My landlord slinks away, while Killian steps into the apartment.
I don’t even have it in me to offer him a wave. I stare at him through droopy eyes, while he watches me with that scowl intact. “I thought you were deciding to be a brat when you missed our appointment tonight.”
Tonight? Is it… Wednesday?
Holy shit, did I pass out for nearly 30 fucking hours? I’ve never slept more than 10 hours in my entire life.
Then again, I’ve never run on a maximum of four hours of sleep and sheer stress for five weeks in a row, either. Not even college finals were as bad as the last month and change.
Killian strides over to me and presses his palm to my forehead. It’s cool, dry, and heavenly—I lean into it with a soft whimper.
“Fuck,” Killian mutters. “You’re burning up. I’m calling a doctor.” He whips his phone out of his pocket, clicks a few buttons, and holds it into his ear.
“Don’t,” I rasp. “I’ll be fine—”
“I’ve been around many sick people before, Lyra, and you’re most certainly not fine. You should be going to urgent care right now. Lucky for you, I have a more comfortable option in mind.” He switches gears when whoever he’s calling picks up.
“I’ve got a friend who needs your services and your discretion.
” He rattles off my apartment address. “Bring meds and all the tools you need with you—and tests. She’s in a bad state.
” He hangs up without further ado. His eyes rake over the coffee table in front of me and the blanket on top of me.
Thank fuck my other phone and laptop are safely tucked away in their hiding place.
“When did you pass out?” he asks.
“Tuesday afternoon,” I rasp.
His eyes flutter shut. “It’s Wednesday. 9p.m. I’ve been calling and texting you for the last two hours. I thought you’d decided to be a massive brat, begging for a punishment.”
Fuck. We had an ‘interview’ scheduled two hours ago. “I was asleep,” I croak.
“I can see that. You’ve been asleep for over twenty-four hours.” He shakes his head and returns to his phone, clicking around on it. “You need to get fed and hydrated. Do you have tea?”
I nod. “Kitchen.”
He disappears through my kitchen door. I hear the electric kettle turn on, followed by the opening and closing of cupboards. Killian returns minutes later, holding a mug of tea. He takes a seat on the couch beside me and helps me sit up. “Here,” he murmurs.
“I…” I trail off with a wet cough. “I don’t think I can sit up.”
Killian’s brows touch. He sets the tea down on the coffee table, slides an arm around me, and carefully lifts me up. I feel as helpless as a toddler, incapable of doing even the simplest task.
I suppose the stress was bound to catch up to me sooner or later. I just wish it wasn’t in a way that gave Killian King a reason to invade my domain.
Then again… this apartment is no longer my domain or my safe haven. Not after what happened in my bedroom, and the chills I get every time I go in there, even if it’s just to grab a change of clothes.
Killian helps me take a few sips of tea, then gentles me back down. “You should be in bed,” he says, frowning.
I shake my head, even though the movement makes my headache grow a thousand times worse. “No bedroom,” I whisper.