His lips barely part. “Vision’s… weird.”
“Okay. Okay.” I sit up carefully, ignoring the way the sheets slide down my still-naked body. “Hang tight.”
He lets out a soft groan, pressing the heel of his hand to one eye. His entire body stays perfectly still, like even shifting his head might trigger a bomb.
I stand and grab the comforter off the bed, tugging it toward the window. It takes less than a minute to rig a makeshift blackout curtain by hanging the thick material over the rod with two of my hair ties.
The light disappears, and he exhales like it physically hurts less now.
Good.
One problem down.
But he’s pale. His skin has that ashen undertone that means the pain is sinking deeper than he’ll admit, and the way he’s swallowing, all tight and careful, tells me exactly where this is headed.
Nausea.
I hurry back to the bed and crouch beside him. “Do you feel like you’re gonna be sick?”
A weak shake of his head. “I don’t know.”
Translation: yes.
I reach for his hand. He doesn’t squeeze it. Just lets me hold it. Another sign something’s really wrong. Rowan doesn’t do limp anything. Especially not fingers.
I press my lips to his knuckles. “I’m gonna get help.”
“No.” His voice is hoarse and rough. “I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine.” I stand. “And I’m not watching you suffer in silence like some martyr. Just stay still.”
He mutters something that I don’t catch.
Because I’m already grabbing the room phone.
I vaguely remember Chad saying there was an on-call medical team for the retreat. Mostly for hangovers and bad decisions, but I don’t care if the IV bag is labeledParty Girl Rescue, I’m using it.
I dial Chad’s number and explain the situation. He starts to suggest the emergency room, but I quickly demand the in-house doctor and hang up.
Rowan’s curled slightly toward where I used to be, like even in pain, his body still thinks it should find mine. His hair is a mess, dark strands clinging to his forehead. His strong, ridiculous chest is rising in uneven rhythm, and the edge of the sheet is tangled low at his hips, revealing the V of muscle that could probably convince a jury to acquit a war crime.
If he weren’t so clearly suffering, I’d be drooling.
But I’m not.
I’m pacing.
Because if the on-call doctor can’t fix this, I’ll take Chad’s advice and drag Rowan to the ER myself.
“Help’s coming,” I whisper to Rowan.
And this time, he doesn’t argue.
That alone tells me how bad it is.
I back away from the bed carefully, like any sudden movement might trigger another wince. The air feels weighted and thick with pain. Even the silence is trying to keep its voice down for him.
I spot my dress half-draped over the chaise lounge, rumpled and inside out from last night, remembering my hands in hishair, his breath at my throat, but I quickly shove the memories away.
