CHAPTER SIXTY RONAN
CHAPTER SIXTY
RONAN
NOW
Istumble into the hallway, tugging my pants up as I hit the wall across from my bedroom.
There’s something wrong.
The camera in the cell is shitty quality, but not even a bad feed can hide the fact Chloe’s bent over the toilet losing what little she has in her stomach.
She’s refused every meal I’ve taken her, four in total, and I’ve considered force feeding her more than once.
In my haste to get downstairs quickly, I don't notice when another door opens until I’m slamming into them.
Damon.
His eyes are locked on his phone, the same camera feed that plays on my phone live on his.
“What are you doing?” I ask, flicking my attention from his screen to his face.
“Nothing,” he snaps.
“Were you going to go check on her?”
My skin itches with the need to make sure Chloe is okay, but I’m intrigued by my brother’s reaction. He’s maintained for years how little he cares about her, and yet here he is, just as desperate to check on her as I am.
“No.” His jaw clenches hard, denial shining in his eyes.
As much as I would like to hang around here and prod him more, Chloe’s alone in a fucking cellar throwing up.
She needs me.
“Whatever,” I mumble, shoving past him and making my way downstairs.
I don’t pause until I reach the door of her cell, which I drag open as quickly as the heavy steel will allow.
Chloe doesn’t flinch at the sound, her head resting against her knees where she’s curled up on the hard concrete in front of the toilet.
Before I’ve made the conscious decision, I’m across the room. I drop down beside her and drag her into my lap.
Her weight settles some of the worry building in my chest, but when she leans into me instead of fighting, I know something’s wrong.
Fuck.
Maybe she’s sick. How quickly can malaria set in? There is no shortage of mosquitoes in Florida, maybe she was bitten by one.
“What’s going on, Sparrow?” I murmur, pressing my lips to her forehead.
She’s clammy, but I don’t think she has a fever. That’s a good sign…right?
I have no fucking clue. It’s been years since I’ve cared for another person. I’m out of practice.
“You have to let me go,” she murmurs, pressing to my chest weakly.
“Not going to happen.”
I reposition her with one arm beneath her knees, desperate to have her entire body off the hard ground.
How the fuck did I leave her down here? What kind of fucking monster am I that I’d rather the woman I love be locked up in a cold cell than stand up to my asshole family?
Something warm and sticky seeps onto my arm, and panic slams into me. As carefully as I can manage, I shift to see blood staining my skin.
“Baby, you’re bleeding. Where are you hurt?”
“Everywhere.”
“Did you cut yourself? Did someone hurt you?”
“No,” she breathes, her brow dipping as her entire body tenses.
She’s in pain, and there’s not a damn thing I can do about it.
“Chloe, I need you to tell me what’s going on. Tell me how to fix it,” I plead.
“Just kill me. Don’t make my final days be filled with agony. Just get it over with.”
Her words slice me deeper than any knife could.
Is she talking about when the week is up?
Because there’s no way she could know about that unless Damon told her.
I’ve made damn sure every one of our men knows I’ll make their death slow and painful if they step foot in the cellar while she’s down here.
“You’re not dying, Sparrow.” The words surprise me, but maybe they shouldn’t.
I’ve been trying to rationalize with myself how I’m going to allow her to be killed right here in the place we fell in love all those years ago, but seeing her now?
Seeing her in agony without being able to find the source, I realize that even if this week lapses with no information, I’m not going to allow them to hurt her. “Please tell me what’s going on.”
“I need some things,” she whimpers.
“Anything.”
“Painkillers. Strong ones. Pads or tampons, whatever you can find. And a hot water bottle.” Tears roll down her cheeks as I finally realize what’s happening.
She has her period.
It’s been so long since I’ve had a woman in my life, it didn’t even occur to me. But it should have. I helped Chloe through cramps every month from when she had her first period at ten, right through to the one before she ran.
The one before she fell pregnant with our baby.
One of the reasons I refused to believe she was pregnant at first was because at her last specialist appointment before we were due to go off to college, the doctor said, given the progression of her endometriosis, it would be unlikely she would ever conceive naturally.
It feels like yesterday I held her as she cried, mourning a future we weren’t even sure we wanted yet.
The reminder that she’s been dealing with this by herself for the last ten years, that she’s had one hundred and twenty periods without me there to help her through, is like a sucker punch to the chest.
“You have to put me down,” she whispers.
“Do you feel sick again?”
She shakes her head.
“Then I won’t be putting you down just yet. I’ll get you everything you need, but just let me hold you for a minute.”
“But I’m bleeding on you.”
“I don’t give a fuck.”