Page 89

I lean forward reluctantly, wrap my lips around the straw, and take a sip. The second the cold water hits my tongue, my eyes close in bliss, and I eagerly suck down another mouthful. Then another and another and—

“Slow.” The word is a gentle command that makes my throat tighten.

I ignore him, sucking harder at the straw until the plastic crimps. The water is so cold it aches in my teeth.

“Kamden.”

He pulls the bottle back an inch. My head follows without thought, lips still puckered around nothing, before I catch myself and lean back, face burning.

“I’m thirsty,” I mumble.

“I know, but if you drink half of this in thirty seconds after barely eating yesterday and being sedated overnight, you’re going to make yourself sick.”

I glare at the bottle first, then at him. “I won’t.”

“Everybody says that until they throw up.”

“I’m not everybody.”

A faint smile touches his mouth. “No, sweetheart. You certainly aren’t.”

There it is again—that tone. Warm and firm. It expects something from me. My stomach gives a slow, warm roll. I shift against the bed. Why does my neck feel hot? The air in the room hasn’t changed.

He tilts the bottle toward me again. “Small sips.”

I take one, letting the water sit on my tongue before swallowing, and when he doesn’t pull it away again, I take another.

He watches me closely—not my mouth, but my eyes and the line of my throat as I swallow. Like he’s counting breaths or waiting for me to pale.

I drink until my thirst eases and the water no longer feels like a miracle. When he draws the bottle back again, my lips part in protest.

“I want more.”

“You can have more in a few minutes.”

“I’m not five,” I argue.

“I know how old you are.” His gaze doesn’t waver.

“Then stop treating me like I can’t drink water.”

“I’m treating you like someone whose stomach has been through hell for the last twelve hours.” His voice stays level, no edge to it. “No one is taking the water away from you. You can have as much as you want, but I won’t allow you to make yourself sick.”

The words land somewhere deep and tender. I don’t understand why it matters—why that specific assurance makes something in me go still and quiet. Maybe because at home, things do get taken away. Food when she’s angry. Money when she’s desperate. Privacy whenever she feels like it. Whatever Mom decides she needs more than I do.

The man sets the bottle on the nightstand—close enough to be reassuring, but far enough that I can’t reach it.

“You’re tired,” he says.

“No, I’m not.” My voice cracks on the last word, small as a mouse caught in a trap.

He gives me a look that says he sees right through me and can clearly tell I’m forcing my heavy lids open.

“You’re practically falling asleep sitting up,” he remarks, the corners of his mouth taut.

“I just woke up.”

“That doesn’t mean your body’s recovered.” He shakes his head.