Page 81 of The Scandal You Started
When the kettle went off with a flood of steam, her hand reached to pick it up, but her frown moved to the archway, waiting for his entrance.
A few seconds passed.
Nothing.
Not the creak of the third step from the bottom to let her know he was coming down the stairs. Nor the faint patter of movement on the floorboards above to at least tell her he was awake.
Something’s wrong.
Abandoning the kettle, Rayna headed out into the corridor and up the stairs, swiftly passing her room and stopping before Dominic’s closed door.
She rapped her knuckles against the rustic wood twice. “Dominic?”
No answer.
Which meant he was either in the bathroom, still asleep, or dying on the bed from sickness.
On the sure gut feeling it was the latter, she pushed on the handle, opening the door.
The navy curtains of the two windows opposite were still drawn. But the light from behind her and little glimmers from the sides of the drapes illuminated the queen-size bed tucked in the right corner against the ensuite wall just before the built-in cupboard alcove.
Rayna’s heart plunged to the pit of her stomach.
“Dominic,” she uttered in a panic and ate up the strides towards his bed.
He lay sprawled on his back, his head turned away from her, the blanket tangled around his hips. His T-shirt had ridden up his abdomen where one hand rested, his skin coated in a dampsheen. Other than his rasping breaths, coming strained and slow, he was entirely unresponsive to the sound of his name.
“Dominic,” she called again. “Bloody woods.Dominic.”
From close up, she could see he was trembling even though he was sweating a lot. His lashes flickered weakly upon hearing his name the third time.
Bending over him, she pressed the back of her fingers to his neck and swore under her breath.
He let out a shuddering exhale at her touch and began rotating his head, his hair slick and spiking in different directions. His eyes were barely open a sliver. “Rayna…” he croaked.
“You’re burning up,” she said.
“I’m fine,” he whispered, moving his trembling hand from his stomach towards her fingers.
“No, you’re not fine, you idiot. You’re ill,” she bit out. “Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you call for me? This is why—fuck, wait there.”
She went straight to the bathroom and came back out with a digital thermometer and a cold, wet flannel just wrung enough so it wasn’t dripping over the latte carpet.
“Keep still,” she said after powering the device on, then held it to his forehead.
“Nothing wrong,” he rasped just as the thermometer beeped.
“What the fuck do you mean nothing wrong?” She showed him the digital face. “You have close to a thirty-nine-degree fever, Dominic. Any higher, and I would have had to rush you to the lab infirmary.”
He made a gruff sound of complaint. “Too loud.”
A pang of sympathy echoed in her chest, but she was bloody annoyed with him, annoyed with herself too for not having investigated the signs she’d seen last night further. She shouldn’t have let him leave like that. He’d spent the whole night suffering because she had.
“Good,” she grumbled quietly and placed the thermometer on his bedside cabinet by a lamp, clock, and half a bottle of water. “This is your own fault. You shouldn’t have been so stubborn last night.” She sat herself on a bent knee beside him, spreading the flannel open over one palm. “I could’ve given you some medicine, and you wouldn’t be feeling so shit right now.”
She went to press the wet cloth to his face, but he caught her wrist and stopped her.
Dominic gave a small shake of his head. “No.”
