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My hand never makes it.
Chapter Nineteen
Marrok
A feminine gasp awakens me in time to see Morgana crumple to the ground by the back door. I dart across the room and kneel beside her. She looks too pale, twenty shades lighter than white. Her breaths are shallow, her body so bloody still. Did I hurt her last night? Was I too rough?
Cease being foolish. Naught about Morgana is delicate.
I shake her. “Witch? What ails you?”
Not a muscle twitches.
“Morgana?”
What game is this? Never was she passive or helpless. A new tactic, mayhap? Does she punish me because I called her not by her preferred name? In eons past, she flew into wraths for far less.
“Olivia? Open your eyes.” I brush my fingers across her cheek. “Do you hear me?”
She feels hot. A fever?
Frowning, I lift her into my arms. She nearly burns me.
I cannot imagine what illness has befallen her. Can a witch suffer a nonmagical malady? I know not, but what except sickness could account for her ashen skin radiating heat like the sun?
Or is this a hoax to drag me deeper into her scheme?
“Burning…” she moans. “Need…”
Cradling her, I rise to my feet. She wails again, this sound rife with pain.
I scowl. “Need what?”
Silence.
I stride down the hall. Lord, she weighs less than nine stone. I tip the scales at more than double that. And last night, I settled myself on top of her, pushed inside her, and insisted she take every inch of me…
With a grimace, I lay her on my bed. “Tell me. What do you need?”
“Touch…”
I settle my palm on her forehead. If anything, her temperature has ticked up. If this is a pretense, ’tis her most convincing.
“Me,” she whimpers.
“I must cool you down.”
I race to the kitchen. Ice. Loads of it in a bucket. Some towels soaked in cold water. Aspirin.
Hands full, I return to find her unbelting my dressing gown. Dumping the supplies on the bed, I wrench the knot free and draw off the garment.
“Better?” I ask once she lays bare.
She moans again and arches toward me. The woman is sick, yet the sight of her soft body has me unbearably hard. Aye, that makes me a scoundrel, but the pull I feel to her, especially when she parts her legs and tempts me with her tight cunt, is undeniable.
Doing my utmost to focus, I drape one of the cool, wet cloths across her chest. She lurches from the bed, screeching and tearing at the cool compress as if it scalds her. I urge her down once more, holding the cloth in place while she thrashes like a wild thing.
The bloody irony of trying to save Morgana… Once, I would gladly have killed her for my freedom. Now, for reasons I cannot fathom, I am determined she will not die.
