“You need to rest, my love,” Salem said, pulling back the bed covers and helping Aurin to lie down. “I know you are very stubborn when you aren’t feeling well, but you’re going to be good and let me help you.”
He was even too listless to argue. He simply snuggled into the blankets and closed his eyes. “Don’t go far.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” Salem whispered.
And he didn’t move. He sat on the side of the bed, watching Aurin sleep. Watching his breathing. Watching as his face flickered with pain every so often.
Rain tappedagainst the windows while Aurin lay tangled in his massive blankets, pale and miserable, one arm flung over his eyes.
“You’re burning up again,” Salem murmured.
“I’m not,” Aurin croaked.
“You absolutely are.”
Salem pressed the back of his hand to Aurin’s forehead anyway. He was hot. Damp. And beneath the blankets, Aurin shifted restlessly as if he was struggling to hold a stable human form. Then there had been the involuntary shifting—fingertips briefly webbing, patches of iridescent skin flashing along his ribs before disappearing again.
Aurin groaned. “Everything aches.”
“I know.” Salem sat carefully on the edge of the bed. “You scare me when you are this unwell.”
That was putting it mildly. Cephamorphs were rarely unwell. Usually it was the human form that suffered, as was the case with Aurin now.
Salem lingered, watching, monitoring, and waiting for Kellan to arrive. Which wasn’t happening fast enough, Salem thought, growing impatient.
“Stop sighing,” Aurin said faintly.
Salem put the back of his hand to Aurin’s forehead again before quickly replacing it with a damp washcloth.
Aurin, of course, pushed his hand away and curled tighter beneath the blankets. “You keep staring at me.”
“Because I’m worried about you.”
“You’re hovering.”
“Yes,” Salem said immediately. “I am. And I’m not leaving.”
That earned the faintest huff of laughter.
For a moment, the only sound was the wind outside and the water lapping at the pylons below. Aurin’s breathing had gone uneven again. His hand drifted unconsciously toward his abdomen.
Salem noticed. “Does it hurt there?”
“…Kind of.”
“Sharp pain?”
“No. Just…” Aurin frowned, searching for words. “Pressure? Weird cramping. Like whatever I ate doesn’t agree with me at all.” He made a face etched with pain and distaste. “Blergh.”
Salem went very still.
This wasn’t good. Something was very wrong. Cephamorphs didn’t get sick...
“Oh, don’t make that face,” Aurin muttered, barely opening his eyes.
“What face?”
“The terrified one.”
