Page 60 of Let Sleeping Vampires Lie

“You say that like it’s a comfort,” he muttered.

He lifted me easily, one arm behind my knees, the other supporting my back. My head lolled against his shoulder, and suddenly I could feel just how much heat I was giving off. His body was as cool as ever. Mine felt like someone had poured liquid fire under my skin.

He carried me to the bed and laid me down carefully, as if I might shatter instead of bounce. The mattress dipped under my weight. I tried to push myself up, but the motion sent a wave of dizziness crashing through my skull.

“Don’t,” he said. “Just stay down.”

“You’re bossy when you’re worried,” I mumbled.

“Because you scare the shit out of me,” he replied.

The words snagged somewhere in my chest.

Sweat beaded on my temples. The inside of my jacket felt suffocating, the fabric clinging uncomfortably to my overheated skin.

“Gods,” I muttered, tugging at the zipper. “I’m burning up.”

“That’s because you pushed too far,” Con said. His voice was sharper now, but underneath the anger was something far more fragile.

“I had to.”

“We can argue about that later,” he snapped. “Right now we get your temperature down.”

He brushed my hands away and took over, unfastening my jacket with quick, efficient movements. There was no lust in it, no teasing—he was all focus, all concern. He slid the jacket off my shoulders and tossed it aside, then started on my belt

Leather buckles gave way under his practiced fingers.

“Boots,” I muttered, trying to kick at one.

He caught my ankle gently. “I’ve got it.”

He peeled off my boots, then the socks, leaving my feet grateful for the cool air. My shirt stuck to my skin. Even the fabric of my pants felt too heavy, too much.

“You’re still burning,” he said, palm brushing my forehead. His touch felt like ice. “You need layers off or you’ll cook yourself from the inside.”

“We’re really leaning into the romance tonight,” I murmured.

“Shut up,” he said softly. “Please.”

The “please” did more damage than the admonishment.

I lifted my arms slightly in surrender. “Fine. Strip me, but I’m not gonna dance for you.”

His jaw flexed, but he didn’t rise to the bait. He unfastened the buttons of my shirt, each flick of his fingers sending a cool draft across my feverish skin. Once it was open, he slid it off my shoulders with careful hands, eyes tracking my face more than my body, scanning for any sign I might pass out.

I was down to my tank top and bra. He hesitated.

“How much do you want off?” he asked quietly.

Even half-delirious, I appreciated the question.

“This is enough,” I said. “For now.”

He nodded and shifted his attention to my pants. The waistband felt like a vice. He undid the button and eased the zipper down. My hips lifted with the motion, uncooperative muscles turned sluggish and clumsy. He worked the fabric down my legs, leaving me in underwear and the thin tank.

The cool air licked at my overheated skin. It helped. Not enough, but some.

He stepped away only long enough to cross to the small adjoining bathroom. I heard water run, then stop. A cabinet door opened, closed.