Page 35 of Sinful Reality

But worse, nausea grows more potent in my belly, tickling the base of my throat and taunting me with what could be a really awful day spent wrapped around a toilet.

“No.” I swallow, though I really shouldn’t, and blink my eyes open. If ever I get to be stubborn, I choose now for it to protect me from a sick, sad, comatose state of sweating through my sheets and grossing myself out with the stench of puke. I refuse to stay down. I absolutely do not accept the idea ofthisover the reality I have waiting for me back at the George Stanley.

I have bones to organize, a skeleton to recreate, and a deer carcass to set aside. I have a professional gold mine to work through, considering how rarely a medical examiner gets to reconstruct a complete human being and find out who it belongs to.

Of course, we’re all pretty certain the bones we found belong to Danika Smith. But until I’ve done my job, dental records have been assessed, and a formal report is complete, no one gets to move forward with assumptions.

I want to get up. Shower—again—and brush my hair. I need to wash the sheen of sweat off my skin, find clean clothes, and make sure my feet haven’t fallen off while I slept. Then, as I turn my head to triple check I am, in fact, here alone, I need to find my husband.

Because fevers, bad dreams, sweaty boobs, and a sick stomach don’t exclude me from remembering the absolute hell we put each other through yesterday.

But having plans, and executing them, aren’t always mutually inclusive. And Archernotbeing here to nudge me off the mattress and face first onto the floor means I’ve yet to move.

I’m not even sure I know how.

I glance to my right with slow movements, and still, it hurts so damn much, to look out the window and find Copeland City buzzing with a new day. It’s not raining, at least. Not even snowing.

It’s not, like… sunny or anything. But the clouds are a little less gray than usual. The light, a little less depressing.

Good signs, no?

“Hey. You’re awake.”

I startle and drag my focus to the partially open door, my eyes locking on Archer’s kind gaze, then down to the coffee mug held firmly in his strong hands. My tongue comes out to lick my lips, though I don’t consciously consider the action. Then I look up again and study his friendly expression.

The soft lines of his gently curled smile and the selfless compassion he wears today are worlds removed from the feral anger he wore yesterday.

“Is that coffee for me?” I swallow the razor blades in my throat and lock the groan attempting to be free, down, down, far down so this man doesn’t get to hear me complain. “Thanks. I?—”

“Not for you.” He breaks my heart in just three words, but he steps into the room and comes around to my side of the bed, setting the mug on the table and half his backside on the mattress.

Finally, he places his palm on my forehead.

Somehow, I can tell this isn’t the first time he’s done so today.

“Still pretty hot, huh?” He pulls back to search my eyes. “I said you were getting sick.”

“I just need ibuprofen and coffee.” I blindly reach for the mug, though he chuckles and pushes my arm back. “Archer?—”

“Water.” He presents a half-filled glass and two little pills I know will solve all of my troubles. “Pain relief. These will make your fevers go away for a few hours, and the water is so you don’t die of dehydration.”

“Thank you.” I dig my elbows into the bed and attempt to sit up, but the movement sends bolts of pain slamming through my muscles. It’s like diving into icy water, head first, from a hundred feet up. Like shards of glass in my blood and a brick wall tossing itself mercilessly at my face. “What the hell?”

“Like I said…” He helps me sit and holds me steady, then he drops the pills on my tongue and offers the water, giving me no choice but to drink. “Sick. But you insisted on standing in a frozen hole, your feet in the water and your clothes soaked through, until three o’clock this morning.” He lowers the water when I’m done, shaking his head. “I’m glad we made up already, because I’d feel shitty if I was still mad at you while you were so unwell.”

“I’m not sick.” And yet, I slump back against the mattress and tremble when my fever turns to a chill that wracks my frame. My teeth chatter and my toes curl under the blankets. “I have to get up and go to work. I?—”

“Have to listen to me. For once in your fucking life,” he grits out. “The George Stanley is doing fine without you. Aubree’s clocked in and is being the Minka 2.0 in your absence. The rest of the team are doing their jobs, and even Detective Dickface is calming the fuck down with his incessant calls.”

“He… You…” I tilt my head up and meet his eyes. “What?”

“Well, first of all, he started way too early this morning. So either he forgot about the time difference, or he’s really fucking rude. Secondly, he was calling on the hour, every hour since eight.”

“He…”Every hour? How many hours?“W-what time is it?”

“Once we got to the sixth unanswered call, and I was tempted to wring his fucking neck, I texted him from my phone, since using yours would misalign with my statement about how I totally and completely trust you. So I let him know you were asleep and sick and that you would contact him when you could.”

“You texted him?”Oh god. Why does my stomach want to paint the walls with green mucus?“With those words?”

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