I pull back to find wet grey eyes. The dagger drives deeper. I’m bringing him down with me but I can’t let him go.
“What’s wrong with me?”
He cups my face, smearing the mess of tears leaking down my cheeks. “There’s nothing wrong withyou, baby. You're just not feeling well.”
Hysteria threatens to crest again.
“Why though?”
He shakes his head. “The brain is like any other organ. It can get sick.”
My chest still aches, but I’m no longer hyperventilating. “So… you think I have an infection?”
“Not exactly,” he sighs, swirling patterns between my shoulder blades. “More like a condition.”
“But you think I can be cured, right?”
His palm slides down my cheek, thumb swiping across my bottom lip.
“I don’t know if it works like that, but you’re not alone.”
I deflate, lip quivering against the pad of his thumb. He pulls my forehead to his. Each of his exhales, I inhale.
“You mean… your brain is sick too?” I whisper.
He nods against me.
The bruising throb in my throat intensifies. I don't want him to feel like this. I'm on the verge of breaking down again when he rasps, “I have an idea. Can we try something?”
“Try what?”
His gaze flits to my mouth. Back to my eyes.
“Do you trust me?”
With my life, my heart, my soul.
“Yeah.”
His leg hooks mine—
Flipping me under him. Hands land on either side of my head. Holding my gaze, his knee gently nudges my thighs apart.
Oh.
My heart slams against my ribs.
“Win?”
He lowers to the crook of my neck. “Hmm?”
“What are you doing?”
Lips whisper across the pounding pulse in my throat. “Making you feel good.”
Then his hips press forward and all thoughts evacuate the building. Nothing matters except Win and the witchcraft he’s performing.
My eyes roll, my spine arches, my lips part. A foreign sound sneaks out.
