TARYN
The water in the shower had gone cold.
I didn’t notice at first.
I lingered under the spray longer than necessary, scrubbing away grime and blood as if I could erase the past few days. As if the world beyond the bathroom door hadn’t broken open.
When I finally stepped out, steam clung to the mirror. I wiped it with a corner of my towel and wasn’t surprised to see the lack of sleep and missed meals had taken their toll. I had dark circles under my grey eyes, and my face looked thinner.
I felt like I’d aged years since this journey had begun.
I dried off and put on the clothes Beck had given me, having to roll the pants' waistband several times just to walk in them. I tied the shirt in a knot at my back, then used the rubber band on my wrist to twist my long, wet hair into a messy bun on top of my head. I closed the toilet lid, sat down, and put on socks and my boots. This outfit didn’t look any better than my last, but at least I was clean.
I opened the door and found Beck leaning against the wall. His face was flushed, and his eyes were closed.
“You need to lie down.” I put my arm around him and led him back to his room.
“I’m fine.” The terrible cough that hit him at that moment made the statement into a lie.
I brushed his hair back from his forehead and left my hand there for a moment. “You’re burning up.”
When he answered, it was barely coherent. “—fine, Fox.”
His chest was rising in a way that let me know he was struggling to breathe.
“Beck?” I whispered.
He didn’t answer this time.
“Beck?” I said louder.
His head snapped up a second later, as if the sound of my voice reached him through a fog.
His green eyes were unfocused. “Don’t… leave,” he mumbled, words slurring together. “Love… my… Fox.”
I jerked back.
There’s no way.
We’d only been together on this trip for a few days, and Lord knows I wasn’t lovable. Shit, even my own father had trouble with it, and I was his child.
No, this was the fever talking.
I felt tears well up as I ran my fingers through his damp hair. This man had become very important to me, and the idea of him turning into one of those monsters was sickening.
I stood.
No. I wouldn’t allow it.
I needed to get him medicine and fluids, then he’d be okay. I just knew it.
Outside the room, someone yelled, and a bottle shattered somewhere in the clubhouse. Then I heard a cough more intense than Beck’s—wet and violent.
The kind that made my stomach knot.
Beck surprised me when his eyes cracked open, and his jaw tightened. “They’re getting worse,” he grabbed my wrist with surprising strength. “If I turn, you get the hell out of here.”
I jerked my wrist out of his grasp. “You’re not turning.” I grabbed his face and looked into his eyes. “Do you hear me? You—are—not—turning.”
