I’d never seen such poverty, and it pierced my heart.
Alex’s pain slammed against me and rocked me to the core.
He was lying on a bed behind the curtain. I squinted in the semidarkness.
The greasy window didn’t let light in, but an oil lamp burnt brightly on a wooden crate. Awful gurgling sounds reverberated out of him when he inhaled. His face was a mask of bruises and bumps. His eyes were swollen shut, and his lips had so many cracks they were barely visible.
I clamped my hands over my mouth, shaking. Someone had beaten him.
Hot tears streamed down my cheeks. His desperation and agony touched me intimately. Papa had told me I’d been sheltered all my life and didn’t know the real world, and he’d been right. While I planned my Season and complained about my lack of friends, Alex lay half dead in his bed in a house Papa wouldn’t deem fit as a garden shed. My problems were so trivial compared to what Alex was enduring.
He was barely breathing. Trembling with the strength of his sharp pain, I perched on the edge of the bed.
He felt nauseous, cold, and boiling hot at the same time. The wounds itched and throbbed, and his body was sore.
Gently, I lowered the collar of his shirt and cried out. The wounds were swollen and covered with a yellow crust. Dark bruises circled them. If it was gangrene, which led to blood poisoning, he wouldn’t survive the night.
I swallowed past the knot in my throat. His pain burnt my skin, and I concentrated on breathing to block his feelings. I wouldn’t leave him alone.
He was weak and starving, but the same anger I’d sensed the other day raged inside him. And then there was the craving. Whatever he craved, he was ashamed of it. Disgusted even.
I put a hand on my stomach. The downside of being able to focus easily on his emotions was that blocking them wasn’t simple.
“Irene,” he whispered in a broken voice.
I caressed his forehead, brushing his dark hair. “Would you like some water?”
He shivered, his teeth chattering. “Ye-yes.”
I fetched a pitcher and a glass, but helping him drink required a few attempts. He was quivering so hard the water spilt everywhere.
He licked his lips. “I felt better after…having eaten. But Riley beat me, and it started. It’s the craving.”
His words didn’t make sense. He had to be delirious. His aura was a combination of violet pain and dark blue sorrow.
“It’s all right. Rest for now.” I would beg Dr. Fletcher to come here.
I tried to give him more water, but he twitched too hard to drink. His breathing was uneven and raspy, and maybe I was too tired, but I could swear his canines had become longer and sharper. His pain rolled off me, but it was diminishing. Whether that was a good or a bad sign was debatable.
A gurgling soundwoke me up with a start.
The oil lamp wasn’t burning anymore. The flame must have died a while ago, and Darius hadn’t returned. Deep darkness surrounded me. I focused on Alex’s emotions while I blindly groped around for a match.
No feelings came. Not even pain. Either fatigue interfered with my power, or Alex was dead.
A shaky breath rattled me.
“Alex?” I almost choked with sobs. “Alex?” I cried out, searching for the stupid box of matches in a panic.
When I closed my hand around the box, I cried harder.
The yellow flare of the match cast a glow on the room. I lit a candle. After I wiped my cheeks, I steeled myself to look at poor Alex. He’d died when I’d been sleeping. He’d died alone. And where was Darius?
I turned around and jolted.
The bed was empty. The covers were lumped to the side, and the pillow showed the impression of Alex’s head. As delirious as he’d been, he might have wandered off. Why I hadn’t heard him leaving was a mystery.
“Alex?”
