I thought he was getting better but by the next evening, Damien was worse again. His skin burned under my hand every time I checked his forehead. He had stopped pretending he was fine. He just lay there in bed, eyes half-closed, breathing rough.
I stood in the doorway for a long time, watching him. Part of me still wanted to walk away. He had done terrible things. But seeing him like this, weak, sweating, shivering, made something twist in my chest. I couldn’t just leave him suffering.
“You need a bath,” I said finally, my voice quiet. “The fever’s not going down. Cool water might help.”
He opened his eyes and looked at me. Even sick, that possessive look was still there. “You don’t have to do this, Elena.”
“I know,” I said. “But I’m doing it anyway.”
I helped him sit up. He leaned on
