Page 19 of Taken Off Camera
“GentlemanX?” I croak.
“You recognize me this time.” His grip on my wrist softens but doesn’t release. “That’s a good sign.”
My breathing quickens. “How are you here? Where am I?”
“You’re still in your apartment.” His thumb moves in small circles over my pulse point, soothing despite my rising panic. “Your bedroom, specifically. You passed out during our call.”
I try to sit up, but a wave of dizziness forces me back down. “That doesn’t explain how you’re physically here.”
The mattress dips as he shifts his weight, the springs creaking softly beneath us. The hand notholding my wrist adjusts the washcloth, his fingers brushing my temple.
“I got worried when you collapsed,” he continues, closer now. “You hit your head on the table, and when you remained unresponsive, I had to make a decision.”
My free hand clutches the blanket covering me. “You shouldn’t be here. No one except Saint can get into my apartment.”
A pause follows, before he sighs, a heavy sound laden with resignation. “I’ve known where you live for some time, Elliot.”
“How did you—” A coughing fit interrupts me, each spasm sending pain slicing through me.
The mattress dips as he shifts his weight, and an arm slides behind my shoulders, lifting me. A cool glass presses against my lips.
“Drink,” he instructs. “Slowly.”
I obey, water soothing my throat. The room spins even behind the washcloth, and I clutch at his arm.
When the water glass withdraws, I lick my lips, trying to formulate questions through the fog in my brain. “How are you here?”
A sigh brushes past my ear. “I recognize patterns. The view from your window matches the Solace building on Park Street. The corner of your kitchenhad a delivery menu for Bamboo Garden, which only delivers to three neighborhoods. Your streams sometimes catch the movie theater sign reflection in your mirror.”
Fear coils in my stomach. This man pieced together my location from fragments in the background of my videos.
“Please believe that, if you hadn’t passed out, I never would have crossed the line like this.” He pauses. “I panicked when you were unresponsive, woke up your building manager, and convinced him to do a wellness check.”
“Convinced?”
“I may have implied we were dating,” he admits without apology. “We found you unconscious on the floor with a temperature of 104. I paid for a private doctor to come rather than an ambulance.”
My fingers trace up to my inner elbow, where they bump over a small bandage. “You had someone put an IV in me while I was unconscious?”
“You were severely dehydrated. The doctor administered fluids, antibiotics, and medicine for the fever.” His weight shifts on the mattress. “He said it was likely influenza. There’s been a bad virus going around.”
“You invaded my privacy.” The accusation lacks heat, undermined by the way I still grip his arm.
“Yes.” No denial, no excuses. “I was terrified when you hit your head. For all I knew, you were dead.”
“How long was I out?” I ask.
“Almost eighteen hours.” He smooths back my hair. “The fever broke about four hours ago, but you kept sleeping.”
Eighteen hours. GentlemanX has been in my apartment, watching over me, for almost a full day. The thought should terrify me more than it does.
“Why don’t you want me to take off the washcloth?” I reach up once more, slower this time.
His hand catches mine again. “So I can stay anonymous. I’d prefer if you didn’t see my face.”
I process this. After collapsing online, hitting my head, and waking to a stranger in my bedroom, his primary concern is maintaining his privacy. “Seriously?”
“I understand it’s an unusual request.” Tension tightens the hand that still clasps mine. “But it’s important to me.”
