Chapter 55 Episode 55

“That’s… that’s nice of you to say, but I have to finish. This is my job and—” I don’t let her finish. I scoop her up in my arms and carry her out of the kitchen. I know she’s sick because it takes her a second to figure out what’s happening. “Anton, what the hell are you doing?” “You don’t listen very well, do you?” “Put me down,” she insists. I head up the floating staircase that leads to the second floor. There are at least three guest bedrooms on this level, but I move past the landing and continue up to the third story. “Where are you taking me?” I don’t answer her. I just keep walking until I get to my bedroom. I kick the door open and walk in. The open windows flood the room in an ocean of bronze sun. My bed is on a raised platform in the center that’s accessed by a single step. I carry her over to it and set her down on top of the perfectly fitted sheets. I slide them out from under her and tuck them around her shoulders. “Is this your room?” she asks, glancing at the clothes strewn on the chair next to one of the windows. “I shouldn’t be here.” “Just lie back and stop arguing. You’ll feel better once you stop talking.” Despite how weak she seems, she still manages to throw me a glare laced with spirit. “Anton, this is really kind of you but…” She stops short, her expression twisting with discomfort. “Oh God. I’m gonna be sick again…” She throws herself off the bed, a hand clapped over her mouth. “Bathroom?” I gesture to the door on the far wall. Nodding, Jessa careens around the corner of the bed, whacking her leg on the protruding frame. But she doesn’t even seem to notice as she sprints into the bathroom just in time to retch her guts out into what I hope is the toilet. She must see me follow her out of the corner of her eyes because she raises her arm to keep me back. All I can see is the pale palm of her hand. She shakes her head furiously as I move closer, but I just keep on coming. She’s working so hard to keep me back that she doesn’t have enough hands to hold back her hair. I reach out and pull it back for her, getting it out of her face. “Please… just… go…” she gasps between spasms. Again, I ignore her. She doesn’t have time to protest because she starts retching again. She throws up a little bit more and then it’s nothing but dry heaves. When even that settles, she flushes quickly and tries to straighten up. “Calm down,” I tell her. “Take it slow. Do you want to end up with your head in the toilet again?” She tries to brush away my hands, but I’m not ready to let her go yet. Not until I’m certain she’ll be steady on her feet. I help her to the sink where she washes out her mouth and splashes some cold water on her face. I pull out a hand towel and hand it to her. “Thank you,” she says softly. She nods. “Sorry about that. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.” “It happens to the best of us.” She gives me a searching look. “Somehow, I can’t imagine you sick.” “I am still human,” I admit with a chuckle. “Coulda fooled me,” she mumbles. “I can walk just fine.” “Don’t argue with me, Jessa.” “Anton,” she says, giving me an incredulous once-over, “I’m a grown ass woman. Believe it or not, I have thrown up before and lived. I’ll live this time, too. I don’t need any help getting back to the room on my own.” “Is this your way of getting me to carry you again?” I ask. “Because it just might work.” She sighs and takes my arm. With a self-satisfied smile, I lead her back into my bedroom. I’m not quite sure why I brought her here of all places. Especially when there are perfectly good, perfectly vacant rooms in this mansion. Rooms that aren’t quite so… personal. Not that I have a bunch of my things lying around. I’m not much of one for sentimentality. But this is the room where I sleep and shower and dress. There’s something to be said for bringing another person into your private space. Jessa seems aware of this, too, because she walks through the room as though she’s scared to touch anything. In my opinion, it’s too late. Her scent has settled into the air already. “I think I’m okay to go back downstairs and—” She breaks off when she sees the expression on my face. “You’re not going anywhere,” I say firmly. “You’re in no position to go back to work. You need to lie down and wait until your strength is back up.” I point her towards the bed. “This is completely unnecessary,” she complains with a pout. But she lets herself be led to the bed. Still, she doesn’t get in. “I’m not sure. Are you sure you don’t mind me being here?” “I wouldn’t have brought you here if I minded.” I realize that Jessa is the only woman I’ve ever brought to this room. Marina and I used to share a bedroom on the second floor when we were first married. A few months later, the fractures in our relationship started to show, and I moved my things here. I’ve been here ever since. Her hand trembles slightly, but I notice right away. She gives a little defeated sigh and sits down on the very edge of the bed like she’s trying to take up the least amount of room possible. Rolling my eyes, I grab her feet and hoist them onto the bed. I expect her to make a fuss, but she just lies there quietly and watches me. She still looks too pale. There’s a sallowness to her skin that I don’t like. “Maybe I should get a doctor in to see you.” “Like a house visit?” she asks. “If I don’t feel better soon, I’ll just take myself to the hospital.” “We’ll see,” I say, not interested in arguing with her. “I’m going to go get you some lemonade. It’ll help with the nausea.” “I’m the chef, remember?” she says. “There’s no one else to prepare it.” I smirk. “If children can run lemonade stands, I think I can manage.” She balks at me. “You’re going to make me lemonade?” “Yes, I’m going to make you lemonade. I’m not a f*****g genie, am I?” “Why is that so shocking?” “Because… I just… I don’t understand why you’re here,” she says finally. “Taking care of me, I mean.” “Didn’t expect that from a cold-hearted murderer, did you?” She blinks at me with her wide, innocent eyes. “Well… no.” “There’s more to me than meets the eye.” I turn for the door. “I’ll be right back.” I have no idea what the hell is happening. One minute, I was in the middle of making lunch. The next, I’m lying in Anton’s bed while he goes to the kitchen to cook for me. “The world has turned upside down,” I mumble, turning my face into the pillow. It smells exactly like him, rich and warm. I want to sink into the sheets and never emerge, but I force myself to prop up against the headboard. I’m already feeling slightly better, though I’m not sure if that’s because my condition has improved or because Anton’s attention is giving me a much-needed high. As soon as he walks back into the room, I feel myself leaning towards the latter explanation. “Here you go,” he says, offering me a tall glass of lemonade. He ignores me. “Drink it.” I do as he says, and I have to admit the tang of the lemonade does push back that queasy churn that’s settled into the pit of my stomach. “Not bad,” I say, holding up the glass so I can take a closer look at the contents. “Believe it or not, I know my way around a kitchen.” “Of course it does. I mean, you don’t really strike me as the type who cooks. You hired me, after all.” “Well, I haven’t had to cook for a while now,” he admits. “But when I was a child, I used to.” He shrugs. “Our mother wasn’t around and our father worked constantly. Most of the time, it was just Yulian and me on our own. And sometimes, we used to break out of our rooms at night and go down to the kitchen. I’d cook. Yulian would mostly just be a nuisance.” I smile at the image, but I can’t quite picture Anton as a little boy. “Those must be fond memories for you.” He shrugs. “I don’t think about it much.” “It was a long time ago.” I squint at him, trying to figure out if he gets sentimental about anything in his life. But considering the state of his room, I’m guessing not. It’s a beautiful room filled with beautiful furniture, beautiful clothes, beautiful views of the gardens. But it has the same impersonal spirit as a hotel room. Apart from a few clothes strewn about the floor, there are no personal items on the shelves or pictures hanging on the walls.