Page 85 of Don't Let Me Go
Jackson doesn’t hesitate. He hops out of bed like an excitedpuppy and hurries over to the oak bureau on the other side of the room where his phone is docked in a very sophisticated-looking sound system.
Still not believing my luck, I let my thirsty eyes drink in his body. In the pure white glow of the moonlight, he looks like a Greek sculpture: smooth and hard and timeless. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything so beautiful or wanted something as much as I want him.
Even these few seconds apart are agony. I’m longing for his lips, his hands, his heat. I want every part of him, and I’m going to have every part of him.
Just as soon as he stops fiddling with those speakers.
“Everything all right over there?” I ask when Jackson continues to linger by the bureau. I can’t see what he’s doing because his back is to me, but he seems to be staring off into space.
“Jackson?” I ask when he doesn’t answer.
His head turns slightly in my direction. He looks confused. And tired. More than tired; he looks exhausted.
“I’m so?.?.?.?hot...” He groans.
Then he collapses.
With a cry of panic, I leap out of bed and race to his side. When I lift his head onto my lap, I can see he’s unconscious but breathing. Just like he was at Heartbeats. I pat his face and call his name, but it doesn’t have any effect. I can’t bring him around.
With a sinking fear, it occurs to me that Jackson might have some medical condition. Something he hasn’t told me about. If so, I need to get his aunt.
I slip on my boxers so I won’t completely freak out Miss Haines when I wake her in the middle of the night and dash to Jackson’s bedroom door. But just as I’m unlocking it, my head grows dizzy, and my vision blurs.
Jackson’s room tilts around me. It’s like the whole house is turning upside down. I feel seasick. Disoriented. Just like I did at the carnival. Right before I—
My legs give out, and I collapse to the floor.
Beside me, Jackson lies helpless and unconscious. I don’t understand what’s happening, but with the last ounce of my strength, I reach for him—and the world goes dark.
Brattahlid, Greenland
(December 999)
Chapter 35
Rorik
The witch is coming. Whether to bring good tidings or ill, none can say. But my heart fears the worst. A wolfish winter has fallen upon our land. The cold stalks our longhouses, devouring all that is warm. Does not this make my Ragnar the choicest prey? My Ragnar, who burns with fire in his blood.
“Water,” he groans, tearing the sweat-stained blanket from his body as if it were some poison-fanged serpent that meant him ill.
Perched on the edge of his narrow cot, I dip a cup into the wooden bowl that rests in my lap. It’s almost empty. I’ll need to fetch more snow to melt, though had I all the waters of the fjords, I doubt I could quench the terrible flame consuming my beloved.
With great effort, Ragnar props his tired body up on his elbows, and I bring the cooling cup to his lips. He drinks greedily, desperately, then sinks down again in weariness. His face and body are drenched with sweat despite the meagerness of the hearth fire.
I soak a cloth in the remaining contents of my bowl, then press its damp relief to his hot forehead and wipe his tired face. Even in sickness, my Ragnar is beautiful. The fever that rages in his bones can do nothing to mar his noble profile or dull the luster of his hair, which even now catches the light of the fire like burnished bronze. He is and always has been my most precious treasure. My golden love.
I know not what I would do if I lost him.
“You’re worse than a wife,” Ragnar chides, pushing my hand away. “You fret like an old woman.”
“I haven’t said a word.”
“You fret with your eyes. I can hear them. The whole settlement can hear them.”
Unleashing another groan, Ragnar sits up in bed. His body, made taut and lean with years of fighting, is as pale as snow. Too pale for one who burns like the sun.
“Help me to dress,” he says, gripping my shoulder for support as he forces himself to stand. “Everyone has already left for the Great Hall. Our absence will be noticed.”
