Page 33 of Splintered Memories
12
Emersyn
Iwasdying.
That’s what it felt like, at least, when I’d woken in the middle of the night, sick to my stomach. I’d spent the majority of the early morning hours puking my guts up in my attached bathroom.
I shivered as the sound of someone calling my name pulled me out of my restless sleep. I gripped the towel I’d thrown over myself. A low groan slipped from my lips. Everything was sore and hurting. Sweat slicked my skin, though I was absolutely freezing.
My body curled in on itself tighter as I pried my eyelids open. I was lying on the bathroom floor in front of the toilet, one towel draped over me and one rolled up under my head as a makeshift pillow.
I heard my name again. My teeth chattered as I let loose a pained moan. I couldn’t gather enough energy to sit up as August flung open the door to my bathroom. My aching stomach dropped, and he was at my side in an instant, one hand pressed against the small of my back.I flinched away from him, but he put his other palm against my cheek, forcing my face to his.
I tried not to revel in the warmth of that hand on my face, tried not to lean into it as his eyes glazed over with concern. He was speaking, but I wasn’t paying attention. Those gray eyes flicked to my forehead, where my bandage was. That stare filled with panic when I didn’t reply.
“I’m…fine,” I croaked, my voice sounding like it was coated with sand. “My head is…it’s fine. I think I’m just sick.”
By the time I’d retched up the contents of my stomach for the fourth time, I was sure I’d caught whatever stomach bug Lark had.
August’s hand moved to my forehead, and he cursed. “You’re burning up.”
I closed my eyes again and pushed my face into the towel-pillow. “Go away,” I muttered.
The hand August had on my back rubbed in slow circles, soothing my aching muscles. “I’m not going to leave you sick on the bathroom floor.” He said it like it was the most ridiculous thing he’d ever heard.
I groaned again. I didn’t have the energy for this. When I continued to ignore him, he pushed back the wisps of hair sticking to the sides of my face. My skin tingled where the rough calluses of his fingertips grazed.
“Let’s get you into bed.” His voice was a soft whisper in my ear, startling me.
When had he gotten so close?
I forced my eyes open again. August’s face was inches from my own as he leaned over me. In the sunlight filtering in through the window, I made out the small scars on his skin. There were a few of them: one curving below his lower lip, another on the left side of his forehead andunder his right eye. They were nothing but soft, white lines that weren’t noticeable unless viewed close up.
His brows drew together as he watched me. “Can you get up?” Concern filled his tone.
I gave him a slow blink, pulling myself out of my fever-induced fog. My mouth pulled down as I took stock of myself. I was so tired. “No.”
The thought made the nausea surge.
August nodded. “Okay.”
Relief hit me. I thought he was finally going to leave me alone, but instead, he wrapped his arms around me.
“What are you doing?” I snapped, tensing.
He looked confused. “I’m going to carry you to your bed.”
“No.” I refrained from shaking my head, in case it made me too dizzy. “I’ll puke on you.”
It might’ve been the fever, but I could’ve sworn he chuckled. “That’s all right.”
No, it certainly was not all right. But before I could argue, August slipped one arm around my shoulders, hooking the other under my knees. So gently I barely noticed the shift, he lifted me up and pulled me against his chest.
I let out a foreign noise that was somewhere between a squeal and a gasp as my hands curled into the soft fabric of his T-shirt.
“I got you,” he said softly against the curve of my ear.
I pressed my forehead against his chest, ignoring the twinge of pain from the gash as I clenched my jaw shut, willing myself not to puke all over him as he stood up.
