Page 37 of The Chosen Son

“Yes, my lord.” Zeek dipped into a kind of awkward curtsy then scurried out the door and was gone.

I glowered up at Deimos, too exhausted to hit him with the full extent of my anger. “You didn’t have to be so mean to him. He was only trying to help.”

He sighed wearily, moving the tray of food aside and propping himself on the edge of my bed where it had been. “Trust me, he actually prefers it this way. He’s a demon; he thrives on mean.” He setthe familiar zippered case beside me and flipped it open. “I really hope this is the right stuff, because I don’t think my brother would welcome me back…”

I narrowed my eyes at him suspiciously. “What did you do?”

He shrugged like it was no big deal. “I may have started a fire to distract him while I slipped up to your room.” I gasped, but he was quick to assure me that it was more smoke than flames and that Phobos was able to douse the fire in just a few minutes. “He’s fine, the house is fine. Though he saw me on the way out, and let me tell you, he was none too happy with me.” Deimos, big bad god of dread, giggled like a giddy child. “You should have seen him running barefoot down the driveway in his tighty-whities, shaking his fist…”

He caught me watching him, no doubt with an odd look on my face, and he cleared his throat and got himself under control. “Sorry. Anyway, tell me what to do. I’m ready,” he said, digging through the case and pulling out an ampule and holding a fresh needle in his open palm.

“Y-You’re going to do it?” I asked, trying to back away from him. I felt self-conscious about this whole thing as it was, and I wasn’t at all prepared to let Deimos of all people in. I felt vulnerable and exposed, especially when he stopped my retreat with a hand on my hip, dragging me closer to him.

“Yes, I’m going to do it. You can’t even sit up, and I can see your hands are shaking. Don’t even try to tell me you’re fine to do it.”

He had a point, as much as I hated to admit it. “Uh, there should be alcohol swabs in there.” I drew back the blanket. My limbs were made of cement, and it felt like my fingers were little sausages. I pulled up my shirt, exposing my abdomen. “You’ll need to clean right around here, then pinch the skin and inject it just beneath the surface.”

I waited, but he was frozen, his eyes locked on my stomach. “Right…” He prepared the needle carefully with steady hands, but his gaze kept flicking back to my exposed torso.

“Are you sure you can—”

“Yes,” he said curtly, cutting me off before I could voice my doubt. He blew out a short, sharp breath. “Okay, here goes nothing.”

I held my breath as he first cleaned the skin, the alcohol swab cold compared to his warm fingers. His touch was surprisingly gentle as he gave me the injection, almost tender, and he remained steadfastly focused on the task.

“There, all done.” The tingling sensation I felt had nothing to do with the medication coursing through me, and everything to do with the way he tried to smooth away the hurt, placing his warm palm along my ribs. He dragged his eyes up and over my chest until our gazes held, and for a second, I wondered if he could kiss my boo-boo.

For a second, I wanted him to…

I licked my lips, his gaze darting down to follow the path of my tongue, and my skin heated, but I couldn’t tell if it was a blush or fever. Deimos leaned closer, his violet eyes shimmering with some nameless emotion. It was intense—hewas intense—but I decided maybe it was in a good way. That maybe he wasn’t a bad guy so much as morally gray, and maybe I wouldn’t mind falling somewhere in between right and wrong with him.

But the blush didn’t stop, it just kept getting hotter and hotter. A crease appeared between Deimos’s brows, and he looked down at where his hand still rested on my side. “Cam, you’re burning up.”

“Something’s wrong,” I panted, kicking off the blankets, until—my stomach revolted, and I scrambled for the garbage can in the corner of the cage. “I think I’m gonna be sick.”

The world dropped away without warning, much like I’d been walking down a flight of stairs, anticipating the next riser, but had ended up stepping straight off a cliff instead. I was vaguely aware of the rug burn on my knees as I scrambled to shove my head in the bin.

“Did I do something wrong? Fuck, what is this shit you made me give you?” Deimos asked, an edge of panic creeping in. He paced, hands hovering uselessly over me, unsure of where was safe to touch me. “Should I call someone? A doctor or something?”

I didn’t know gods can sweat. The ridiculous thought flitted through my mind as the lamplight caught the beads dotting his face, twisted into a grimace.

I had to look away as a fresh wave of nausea knocked me on my ass right there on the floor, and I hugged the garbage can to my chest, the metal ice-cool to my burning flesh. It felt like my stomach was trying to invert itself as I heaved, but nothing came out but a thin strand of bile. I really wished I’d taken the chance to eat before doing this.

“No… don’t,” I mumbled between cramps, tears being forcefully squeezed from my eyes. “I’ll be… fine.” That remained to be seen, but Dr. Wells had said this was all to be expected, and I’d chosen to believe him—because what other choice did I have?

I’d expected Deimos to flee, like the prim and fancy god he was, but he crouched down beside me on the area rug, heedless of his designer suit. “Shh, you’re okay.” He rubbed a hand over my back in a slow circle, murmuring soothing words over my shoulder. Honestly, I was surprised he even knew how to be gentle like this, but I found myself leaning into him, taking whatever comfort he had to offer. I told myself he could’ve been anyone—his brother, my mom, the cashier at the corner store—and I would’ve felt the same relief I found as he cradledme in his arms.

Regardless of my increasingly complicated feelings toward Deimos, I pushed it all to the side. I couldn’t think about it now. When it seemed like the worst of the sickness was over, I allowed myself to collapse back fully against him, bracketed by his firm thighs as he sat, leaning back against the bed behind him.

“It’s over now, I’ve got you,” he murmured, his voice sending a low vibration through me, and it seemed to settle my stomach further.

I blew out a breath, relieved for the break, my eyes falling closed. When I didn’t know for sure if this medication was working to slow the illness or not, was the risk really worth how it made me feel? I’d never been a gambling man, and this felt like the biggest bet of my life.

Deimos shifted behind me, and his fingers brushed across the back of my neck as he brought his hand up to smooth the damp hair from my forehead. There was a brief spark, like the release of a static charge between us, and Deimos jerked his hand back. But then something strange happened. A wave of clarity pushed aside the fog, and for the first time in months, maybe years, I felt like I could finally see.

“Wow, I feel… better.” I sat up experimentally, waiting for another bout of nausea, but everything felt more stable somehow. “What was that?”

Deimos scrambled to get out from behind me, kicking off the floor and leaning away like he was afraid to touch me. “What was what? Nothing. It was nothing,” he bit out, backing toward the exit. His face was tight, eyes shuttered, but the flutter of his pulse at his throat told me his heart was racing.

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