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“What the fuck? Did she just faint on you?”
I ignore Ruslan’s incredulous questions as I lift my bride against my chest and swiftly carry her below the deck, out of the blazing sun. She’s like a ragdoll in my arms, as limp as when I drugged her. Fear and worry are a tight band around my ribcage as my mind races furiously, sorting through the possibilities.
Is this a heat stroke? A belated side effect of the drug I gave her two days ago? Or—fuck—could she be sick with something?
Instead of my asshole brother, I should’ve brought along a doctor.
I head toward our cabin with long strides, and Ruslan hurries after me, as does Vika. Larson is already off—presumably to get the first-aid kit.
“Poor thing. She must have low blood sugar,” Vika says as I carefully lay Alina down on the bed, my worry skyrocketing as I note the chalky hue of her skin underneath her makeup. “She barely had any food this morning, and yesterday, the two of you just had lunch.”
Did we?
Fuck, Vika is right. Alina had less than half of her grechka bowl this morning, and only a few bites of food yesterday in the early afternoon. Before that, she’d been unconscious for over a day, and who knows when she’d last eaten before I came for her.
Come to think of it, I don’t remember Alina drinking much in the past twenty-four hours either.
“So what you’re saying is my brother starved his bride after kidnapping her,” Ruslan drawls. “Like some kind of storybook villain.”
It’s all I can do not to punch him where he stands. If not for Alina’s condition, I would. “Shut the fuck up,” I growl at him before turning to Vika. “Get me some water, or better yet, juice.”
She nods and hurries away as Larson appears with the first-aid kit and a bunch of towels.
“We need to cool her down,” he says, approaching the bed. “In case she’s overheated.”
“Here, let me.” I grab the cool, wet towels from him and place them over her chest, neck, and arms.
It’s a balmy twenty-eight degrees Celsius this morning, but in the sun, it’s a few degrees hotter. I think Vika’s theory makes the most sense, but I can’t rule out a heat stroke of some kind. Or a side effect of the drug. Or an illness. Or a combination of all of the above.
Why the fuck didn’t I think to bring a doctor?
Cursing under my breath, I pull the towels off Alina and turn on the overhead fan, letting the movement of the air evaporate the moisture from her skin, drawing out any excess heat. Then I press my lips to her smooth forehead. She doesn’t seem to be overly hot, thank fuck, so she’s either already cooling off or it’s not a heat stroke.
At my touch, Alina’s long lashes flutter open, her jade eyes dazed and unfocused. Then she blinks, once, twice, and consciousness returns to her gaze.
The tight band around my chest eases slightly. “You fainted when we were taking pictures,” I say, answering her unspoken question. “What happened? Do you feel sick?”
Alina blinks and lifts her hand, pressing the back to her forehead. “I… I’m not sure.”
“Freshly squeezed orange juice,” Vika says, appearing at my elbow with a tall glass and a straw. “Drink this. It’ll help.”
I grab a couple of pillows and prop up Alina as Vika brings the straw to her lips. Obediently, Alina takes a few sips and then, much to my relief, drains the entirety of the glass. Almost right away, a hint of color returns to her face, and her gaze clears further.
“Better?” I ask, and she nods, pushing up to a sitting position.
Flash.
She flinches, and I round on my brother, teeth gritted.
He gives me an angelic look. “What? You want pictures for posterity, right?”
What I want is to plant my fist in his face. Repeatedly. Until I hear the cartilage in his nose crunch. And I will do precisely that when Alina isn’t here to witness it. For now, I keep my voice level as I jab my thumb toward the door. “Out. Now.”
He executes a mocking bow and departs. Accurately reading my mood, Vika and Larson hurry after him, leaving me alone with my bride.
I sit on the edge of the bed and clasp her hand in both of mine. Her skin feels chilly to the touch, her hand delicate and fragile in my grasp. “How are you feeling?” I ask softly, holding her gaze. “Any nausea? Dizziness? Headache?”
Her lashes sweep down, veiling her eyes. “I… don’t think so.”
“Does anything hurt?”
“No.” She pulls her hand away, still avoiding my gaze. “Let’s just continue with the wedding.”
She moves to get up, but I grip her shoulders and push her back against the pillows.
“The wedding will wait.” My voice is sharper than I intended, but I can’t help it. The worry is a gnawing ache in my chest. If I’ve done something to hurt her, to harm her… With effort, I even out my tone. “You will eat. You will drink. And then we’ll see about the wedding.”
