Oh god.
I squeeze my eyes shut again, mortification flooding my veins. I showed him everything. I begged him.
I let him… god, I let him do things I haven’t let anyone do in five years. I was a mess of sweat and slick and need, and he saw it all.
“Hey.”
My eyes snap open.
Billy’s sitting in the chair by the small table. He’s leaning forward, elbows on his knees. He looks wrung out. His eyes arerimmed with red, his jaw dark with stubble. He’s wearing the same clothes from yesterday.
He never left.
“How are you feeling?” he asks.
I push myself up onto my elbows. My muscles feel like jelly, weak and trembling, but the searing pain in my lower belly is gone.
The fire has banked, leaving only warm coals behind.
“Better,” I croak. My throat is dry.
“Maggie came by about four hours ago,” he says. He stands up and walks to the mini-fridge. “She brought a few more pills. A different dosage. Dr. Thames thinks the interaction was a fluke.”
He pulls out a bottle of Gatorade and a wrapped sandwich.
“Clara dropped these off, too. She wanted to come in, but I told her you needed the sleep.”
He hands me the Gatorade. I unscrew the cap with shaking hands and drink half of it in one go. The cold liquid is a blessing.
He holds out two white pills. “These are the new ones. Should keep the heat at bay while the antivirals flush out.”
I take the pills. I swallow them dry, then chase them with more Gatorade.
He watches me. His gaze is intense, but it’s different now. Last night, it was predatory, hungry. Today, it’s guarded. Careful.
“Thank you,” I whisper. “For staying.”
He shrugs. “I wasn’t going to leave you like that.”
I sit up fully, swinging my legs over the side of the bed. The room spins for a second, then rights itself.
I’m wearing my T-shirt and a fresh pair of shorts. He must have helped me change again.
“How are you?” I ask. I study his face. The tension in his brow.
He smiles. It’s a small, tired curve of his lips. “I’m fine.”
He steps closer. He leans down and presses a kiss to the tip of my nose. It’s an affectionate gesture, innocent. But it burns through me.
“Get some rest,” he murmurs. “I need to go check on the cattle.”
I nod. “Can you… can you call Clara? I want to talk to her.”
“Sure.” He walks to the door. His hand pauses on the knob. “I’m glad you’re feeling better, Sedona.”
“Me too.”
He leaves, and I sit there for a long moment, staring at the closed door.
