Page 58 of Unleashed

The cool, polished floor tiles blurred beneath me as I stumbled, almost slipping on a rust-colored rug in front of one of the sinks. My breath came in shallow, desperate gasps. I scanned the huge bathroom, squinting through the low light, until I spotted the toilet. I lurched toward it, gripping the lid and yanking it up just as I vomited.

It was violent and unforgiving, and I barely noticed when a warm hand gathered my hair away from my face. I didn’t care who it was. The bile kept coming, one retch after another, until my stomach was completely empty. When it finally stopped, I slumped forward, resting my cheek against the cold porcelain.

A soft flush filled the silence. "Here," came Michael’s voice, calm and soothing. He handed me some toilet paper, his fingers brushing mine as I wiped my mouth.

“Morgan?” he asked quietly.

“Leave me,” I groaned, my voice hoarse.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he replied firmly, sitting down beside me. I could barely lift my head to look at him, but when I did, I saw him—shirtless, wearing nothing but black silk pajama pants. I’d never seen Michael without his perfectly pressed suits, and now, his chiseled chest and abs seemed almost out of place in the quiet vulnerability of the moment.

If I hadn’t felt so utterly miserable, I might have been tempted to run my fingers over those abs. Instead, I let out a pathetic moan and slumped back against the wall.

“Why did you let me drink so much?” I managed to mumble, my head still spinning.

He gave a soft chuckle. “You’re very strong-willed. You weren’t exactly listening to reason last night.”

I groaned again, and he gently stroked my hair, tucking it behind my ear. His touch was surprisingly tender, considering how little I expected of him.

“I feel like shit.”

“You look like it too,” he teased lightly. Then, softening his tone, he asked, “Want to go back to bed?”

I nodded weakly. “I think so.”

Michael stood, lifting me effortlessly into his arms as if I weighed nothing. His chest felt warm against me, and I clung to him like a lifeline. “Do you want to rinse your mouth first?” he asked, already carrying me toward the vanity.

“Please.”

He set me down gently on the cool granite countertop, the cold surface sending a shiver through my body. He reached into a cabinet and pulled out a bottle of mouthwash, pouringsome into a small glass. I took it gratefully, swirling it around my mouth before spitting it out. The minty burn was refreshing against the sour taste of bile.

“Ready?” he asked, his voice low.

I nodded, feeling slightly more human.

Michael scooped me up again and carried me back to the bed, laying me down on the soft sheets. He tucked the duvet around me, making sure I was comfortable before starting to walk away.

“Michael?” I called softly, my voice barely above a whisper.

He stopped in the doorway, turning his head just slightly. “Yes?”

“Thank you... for taking care of me,” I murmured, my eyes already half-closed.

He paused for a moment, as if considering something. “I guess it’s partially my fault you’re in this state,” he said, a small smile tugging at his lips. “But I’d do it again.”

“I should’ve listened to you,” I muttered, feeling the drowsiness start to pull me under. “I really should’ve.”

Michael chuckled softly,a warm, comforting sound. “Yes, you should’ve. Now sleep. I’ll be here when you wake up.”

I turned onto my side, facing the chaise where I remembered he’d slept last night. Guilt gnawed at me for inconveniencing him, but he didn’t seem to mind. As I drifted off to sleep, I heard the faint sound of him settling back into the chair.

The next time I woke,sunlight was streaming into the room, creeping through the edges of the long ivory drapes. My head pounded, a relentless throb behind my temples. Groaning, Ishifted slightly, hearing the faint sound of Michael’s voice coming from down the hall.

Moments later, he appeared in the doorway, still shirtless, still in those black pajama pants. He walked in casually, his expression unreadable as he approached the bed.

“How are you feeling?” he asked, sitting on the edge of the mattress.

“Like I’ve been hit by a truck,” I groaned, pressing my fingers to my temples. “My head’s killing me.”

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