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“I don’t know.” His voice cracks.
I stroke his hair back, and his glazed eyes cling to mine. It’s as if there’s more he’d like to say and can’t, so now it’s bleeding out his eyes. My chest aches so sharply as we look at each other that I have to cast my gaze away.
“You’re always doing that,” he murmurs.
“Doing what?”
I look at his face and find his mouth tugged up at one side. “You don’t like…to look at me.”
“Untrue.”
“I don’t blame you.”
“No, I only worry for you, Sailor.”
“I’ll be better.” His eyes close as he exhales. His face tenses as he inhales.
“What’s happening when you breathe that way?”
His eyes open. His lips tremble.
I hold my hands out, hoping he’ll grab onto them. He flexes his fingers.
“Sweaty.” It’s more mouthed than spoken.
I wrap my hands around his wrists and draw both of his sweaty hands against my chest. His fingers are partially curled. I fold my hands around his. His eyes close.
“When we get out of here, you know, I’m making you soup.”
His lips twitch, and one eye lifts open. “Soup?”
“Just to show off.” I smile. “I make incredible turmeric soup…it’s pure perfection. Homemade bread as well. I know you’d love it.”
His eyes close again.
I stroke up and down his arms, running my nails along his damp, goosebumped skin. “Your arms are like carved marble,” I murmur, running a fingertip over the muscle. “It’s a bit ridiculous, you know.”
I spot some dot-like scars there at the crease of his elbow and, on impulse, drag a finger over one. I realize how they must have gotten there when his eyes open. Even dazed, he looks alarmed. When he shuts his eyes again, I can feel his shame.
I press my hand over the spot. “I don’t pity you, Carnegie. You’re too pretty for that—and you’re filthy rich.”
His lips twitch. He’s trying to smile, and that’s all he can manage. My throat aches terribly.
“Tomorrow, you’ll feel leaps and bounds better. I’ll let you swing the hammer while I watch with my heels up.”
I see him try to smile again. It looks painful. I watch as his face tenses and his breathing picks up. He breaths like the air is out of oxygen, like people do when they’re in horrid pain.
With his hands still curled against the base of my throat, I draw closer to him, wrapping one arm over his warm shoulders.
“You can do this, darling. I know you’re so poorly, but you’re so strong. Every part of you is strong.” I drag my nails down his nape, and Declan makes a low sound in his throat.
“Does that feel good?”
When he breathes harder, I do it again. He groans.
Relief streams through me. Finally—something I can do. I twist my wrist a bit and start to knead his neck in earnest. He gives a low groan, his body tensing against mine.
I follow my mental map of pressure points around his hairline, and he curls closer to me. Finally, his head is on my shoulder. His panted breaths tickle my chest, making me feel warm and oddly…needy. For what, though, I can’t say.
