Page 119 of Toxic Salvation
“He mumbled something about wanting darkness and quiet, so I left him alone.”
“Waylen!”
“What?” He holds up his hands defensively. “I’m not about to play nursemaid to your boyfriend. He’s a grown man.”
Rolling my eyes, I start herding Luka upstairs. “Where are you going?” Waylen calls after me.
“To take care of my boys.”
“You’re pregnant, V. Maybe keep your distance from the plague victims?”
“I’m making soup,” I call back. “Clear broth with chicken and vegetables. And don’t argue with me about it.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Waylen mutters. “By the way, you smell like a garbage truck.”
“This is completely unnecessary, Vesper.”
I press my palm against Kovan’s chest and push him back against the pillows I’ve fluffed behind him. He goes down easily, his skin pale and clammy despite the hot shower I forced him to take twenty minutes ago.
“Have you always been this terrible at being sick,” I ask, “or are you putting on a special show for me?”
“I don’t get sick.” He tries to sit up again.
“Well, congratulations. You’ve just proven you’re human after all.” I push him back down. “Lay there and stay there. If you try to get out of this bed one more time, I’m handcuffing you to the headboard.”
He falls back against the pillows with a defeated groan. “Have you always been this bossy?”
“Only with stubborn patients who think they’re immortal.” I pick up the bowl of soup Waylen brought up earlier and ladle a spoonful. “Now, open your mouth.”
“I can feed myself.”
“Prove it.” I hold the spoon in front of his face and wait. After a few seconds, he opens his mouth like a grumpy toddler.
“That’s actually good,” he admits, surprised.
“Chicken soup has magical healing properties. That’s the first thing they teach you at med school.” I give him another spoonful. “Now, stop fighting me and eat.”
He settles back, watching me with an intensity that makes me self-conscious. There’s something vulnerable about seeing him like this: hair messed up, defenses down, letting me take care of him.
“How’s Luka?”
“Much more cooperative than you are. He showered, ate his soup, and went to bed without a single complaint about being treated like a human being.”
“I have work?—”
“Your work can wait. Your body is telling you to slow down before it makes the decision for you.”
He accepts another spoonful. “I don’t have the luxury of being sick.”
“Too bad. Your immune system doesn’t care about your schedule.” I blow on the next spoonful to cool it. “When’s the last time you took a day off?”
He’s quiet for so long I think he’s not going to answer. “I don’t remember.”
“Well, there you go. Your body is staging a revolt.”
“You shouldn’t be here,” he argues, but there’s no real conviction behind it. “I don’t want you catching whatever Luka and I have.”
“I have an immune system like a tank. I never get sick.”
