Page 12 of Watch Me Turn
"I told you, I'm fine," he protests as he rubs his eyes. "I was just sleeping."
"Is that what you think that was? You looked like a corpse."
He curls his lip as he takes the mug from me and registers the smell. He suppresses a gag, but disgust turns to acceptanceas he takes a deep breath and brings the putrid liquid to his lips, letting just the smallest amount in through pursed lips.
"So?" I ask before he can swallow. "How is it?"
His eyebrows rise slightly. He takes another gulp, bigger this time. Then another.
"Huh," he says, looking down at the mug with genuine surprise. "That's...not terrible."
I throw my hands heavenward. "Well, holy shit. Praise the Mother. 'Not terrible,' the little prince says. Not exactly a ringing endorsement, but I'll take it."
"I'm serious. It's actually pretty good. Kind of sweet. Like horchata. What's in it?"
"Better if you don't know. Not while you're enjoying it, at least," I say as I reach out to touch his burning forehead. "How are you feeling?"
"Fine, I think," he says with a lopsided smile, but his body says otherwise.
I didn't think it was possible, but he's even hotter than he was yesterday. Literally, of course. Figuratively, he's less attractive—though come to think of it, the disheveled hair and stubble around his jawline do give him a less groomed look that I like in a man. I'd attempt to jump his bones and hate-fuck the restless energy out of him if there wasn't such a risk of killing him in the process.
"What?" he asks, studying my face.
"Nothing.” I say staring at a microscopic divot in the granite wall behind him. “You just need rest."
"You're a terrible liar."
"I'm an excellent liar. You're just annoyingly perceptive."
He tries to laugh, but it comes out as a hacking cough, and when he pulls his hand away, I can smell the microscopic flecks of blood on his palm.
"Sophia, what's wrong?” He asks. “And don't say it's nothing, because I can see it all over your face."
I weigh my options. I could lie and maintain the illusion that I have everything under control, or tell him the truth and admit I'm worried. Terrified, actually.
I opt for half a truth. I don't owe him anything, but it's what I'd want if I was in his shoes.
"You're a little off book," I admit.
"How bad is it?"
"It's...not ideal. At least I don't think it is. I've never done this before."
"What?" he splutters. "You're supposed to be looking out for me, and this is yourfirst time?"
I cross my arms. "First time supervising, yes, but I've read plenty about turning, and I know the lore inside out. You've got nothing to worry about. You're in safe hands."
It's directed at him, but mostly I'm saying it for myself. I need assurance because the last of my confidence evaporated hours ago. I'm one step away from scrawling an affirmation on a mirror with lipstick and chanting, "You go girl!"
"Come on," I say, standing up. "Let's get you to the couch. A change of scenery might help."
He doesn't argue, which tells me how wretched he must feel. I help him to his feet, and we shuffle across the room. He's only in a creased white shirt and black boxers now, the rest of his suit discarded somewhere between the first and fifteenth wave of fever. He leans heavily on me, and I can feel the heat of his strong thighs through my jeans like standing too close to a bonfire.
We collapse onto the couch together, him at one end and me at the other. I pull my backpack over and start rummaging through the supplies I brought, lining up a row of mismatchedglass jars strategically on the walnut grain of the coffee table next to some of the herbs Julian left for me.
"What are you doing?" he asks, leaning in for a closer look.
"Making you something to help with the fever. A healing balm. I'm not sure what else to do, and my mom used to do this for us when we were sick. I'm going to try it with a few more magical modifications and see if I can bring your temperature down."
