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DuGray nods, then - thankfully - looks away from the boy. "Well, I'm turning in for the night. I can have a cot brought in for you, if you're sure you want to stay in here?"
"I'd appreciate that, thanks. And thank you for the food you sent earlier."
"Not a problem." He shifts awkwardly. I already know what he's going to say before he says it. "And you'll be leaving soon?"
I force myself not to smirk at his discomfort. He doesn't like me in his space. Good. "As soon as he's cleared for travel, we'll be gone."
And the next time I see you after that, it'll be to kill you.
"Well, good night then."
I let myself smile this time. "Good night."
It’s not a good night.
It’s a night full of temperature spikes and vomiting and delirious murmurs. A night where I inspect him more closely and find little splinters of glass in the cuts on his knees that they apparently didn’t find the need to remove. A night full of tears - even in his fucking sleep. A night of pushing high dose acetaminophen and anti-nausea meds and extra fluids. I handle all of it alone, having removed the one monitor that would alert the doctor. I don’t want that fucker’s hands on Casey if it’s not absolutely necessary.
When Casey’s temperature finally levels out again, I shrug out of my shirt that’s covered in more than one bodily fluid and pull out my phone. I should probably call Travis to give an update. Or Maison. Or both.
“H-hello?”
I hold myself perfectly still, not wanting to scare Casey with any sudden movements. Even the way I lift my head to look at him is slow. He’s looking right at me. “Hello.”
“Who…” he swallows hard, wincing in pain. His gaze leaves me to travel around the room before settling on the instrument tray beside the bed. His hand closest to it flexes like he’s trying to reach for something.
When he never finishes his question, I just assume he wants to know who I am. “My name is Benny Rivera. I’m your new master.”
He tears his gaze away from the tray, but his eyes seem to struggle to focus on me. When they finally do, he asks, “Are you real?”
“Yes, little one. I am.”
“Like the Irish guy,” he murmurs, his gaze dropping as his brows pull close together. I don’t think he’s talking to me anymore. “Like Carter. Not here.”
Carter. My stomach dips. “Carter is-”
His breath catches. He squeezes his eyes shut, shaking his head over and over. “Not here, not here, not here.”
I push to my feet, one hand reaching out, but I don’t know how to calm him. How to convince him that I’m here. That I’m real. That he’s going to be okay.
“Hey. Shh.” I hover my hand over him, trying to fight the rise of panic in my chest. Fuck. I’m failing already. “You’re okay. Everything will be okay.”
He starts hyperventilating. One of his monitor’s beeping escalates, trying to warn me that he’s losing it. Like I can’t fucking see that for myself. Fucking hell.
I feel helpless.
I’m not a guy who does well feeling helpless.
“Okay. You’re going to be okay,” I promise him, going to the tray full of medicine to get the sedative again. I don’t want to wait for it to hit through his IV, so I press the needle directly to his shoulder, hating myself for the startled whine that escapes him.
His eyes flash open, locked onto me. Tears spill out of them and down his cheeks.
“Please,” he whispers, the single word full of desperation.
He falls asleep before I can ask what he’s pleading for.
I call Travis when the doctor says Casey is well enough to travel, excusing myself for privacy. He answers after a few seconds, probably needing to excuse himself too. He’s either in the house pretending to be Nathan Roarke and needs to protect the secret, or he’s in his room with Carter and needs to keep the boy from overhearing what might be bad news. “Ben, hey. How’s it going?”
“He’s taken a turn for the better. The doc thinks we caught the sepsis early enough. Meds are working. He’s not out of the woods yet, and his fever is being stubborn, but… it’s something.”
