Page 155 of Bad Blood

I get a head nod as the driver’s eyes meet mine in the rearview mirror.

And I try to calm my nerves.

It’s temporary.

Fleeting.

A moment.

These are the things I keep repeating to myself.

And I don’t know what to do.

Even through sheer determination, I’m failing.

Doing the one and only thing I was told not to do.

I close my eyes as I try to process what this could mean. She needs me. He needs me. I have no way to help either of them. The music drowns out the sound of traffic as we make our way through the city, everything blurring together.

“We’re here.” The driver’s voice breaks me from my trance. I take a twenty from my back pocket and toss it over the back seat as I fly out the back door without so much as a thanks.

I fly past the doorman and launch myself up the stairs, taking them two at a time. Out of breath by the time I make it to our floor, I try to get the key in the lock, surprised by the lack of sounds from my typical welcoming committee. I swing open the door to find all the lights off and both dogs lying guard in front of Liam’s room.

“Liam?” I take off through the entry and past the living room, stopping at Liam’s door. I pound my fist on the wood and open it after I don’t get an answer. “Hello?”

The scent of raw, overpowering vomit and cleaning chemicals stings my nose.

He was sick. Again.

Axel’s steps are cautious and reserved as he gazes up at me, asking permission to go to Liam. I ruffle his ears as Bane disappears around the far side of the bed, and the dog’s intuition starts to worry me.

The mound of blankets on the bed doesn’t budge. I take a few steps into the room, listening for the sound of the shower.

There’s nothing but bitter silence.

I’m moments away from panic when he sniffles and utters a strained, “I can’t do this.”

Relief washes over me. I make my way around the far side of his bed near the windows and find Liam seated on the floor with his knees pulled to his chest, his forehead resting on his forearms. His sleeves cover his hands, and the hood of his sweatshirt is over his head, covering his face. Bane lays a couple of feet away from him, his chin resting on his paws.

“But it’s working.” I drop onto the lump on the bed, splaying across a pile of thick blankets and pillows. “You only have two weeks of treatment le—”

“I don’t care,” he interrupts. The words are pained and difficult. The crack in his voice comes a second before his shoulders tremble from broken sobs.

I reach for him but stop at the last second, remembering how much he said touch bothers him. The tips of his fingers, the sensitivity in his feet, the face rash and mouth sores, uncontrollable nosebleeds. He’s withering away before my eyes, and I can’t do anything to help. To make him feel better.

“Something’s wrong.” It’s barely a whisper, like the words take too much energy. And he starts to cough.

I roll off the heap, dropping my feet to the floor beside him. Axel stays seated a few feet away, whimpering, and Bane joins him. None of us know what to do.

“You have the rest of the weekend and then infusions. You said they make you feel better. You got this.”

“Please,” he begs, rolling his face to the side so I can see his tear-stained, blotchy cheeks. “Tell her I can’t.”

I’m not a religious person. And I’m pretty sure I’ve never said a prayer in my life, but the second those words roll off his tongue, I start pleading. Don’t do this to him. Please. Take his pain and suffering and put it on me. Help me help him. This isn’t it. This can’t be it.

Please, please, please.

I am his feet. I am his determination. I am his strength.

---