Something wet is trickling from my nose.
I frown. What on ear— My fingers are red when they come away. Blood drips on my palm. Oh shit. The bottom drops out and suddenly I’m sinking, sinking—
Logan rips his white dress shirt and hands me a makeshift handkerchief to press to my nose. His big hand covers my forehead.
“No fever. Just a nosebleed?” His eyebrows pinch together but he doesn’t look too concerned.
“It’s not just a nosebleed,” I close my eyes, wishing I could stop time. No, no no no.
It’s not fair. Not when I just found him. Not when we just found this, here together.
“Then what? Daphne, what’s happening? My gods, I need to call an ambulance.” He starts to rise and I catch his arm. I’m weak, so much weaker than him, but he stills at my butterfly light touch.
“No, Logan. No ambulance. Just...stay with me. One minute longer.” I throw my arms around him, wishing I could go back to that perfect moment, that single second when I had it all before the gods stripped it all away.
“Daphne, please,” Logan eases me back. “Talk to me. What’s going on? Are you sick?”
“I’m sick, Logan. I’ve always been sick. The disease is in my blood.”
Horrified awareness dawns on his face as I swallow and pronounce my death sentence.
“I have Battleman’s. And it’s back.”
Beauty and the Rose
One
Daphne
I can’t believe we’ve come this far.
Logan clasps my hand as we walk through his flourishing rose-filled labyrinth to a fountain at the center I’ve never seen before.
It’s springtime and I swear I’ve never appreciated the world sprouting new life with such fresh eyes before. Logan’s hand isn’t enough contact for me, though. I grasp his arm and giggle as we head toward the stone benches beside the sun-dappled fountain.
“I’ve never been so happy in my whole life,” I sigh and lean my head against Logan’s shoulder. His heat seeps into me and prickles rise on my skin. I’m so attuned to him. I never knew two people could be so in sync.
He bows towards me, his large hand finding my cheek and easing my face towards his. Our lips meet, gently at first, then with greater intensity. My nipples rise and arousal trickles through me.
I sigh into his mouth, “Logan.” A prayer. A plea.
He wraps his arm around me and squeezes me tight—but not too tight. “I was so terrified I’d lose you.” His voice is thick.
I press close, my chest grazing his as I lift my hands to his face. “You’ll never lose me, Logan Wulfe. Nothing on this earth can part us.”
I go up on my tiptoes to kiss him again, but right before our lips can make contact, out of nowhere—
“Wha—?” I cry out as the rosebush to my left suddenly shoots out a viney thorn branch that wraps around my neck.
Another shoots out and wraps around my torso, pinning my arms to my chest.
Before I know what’s happening, I’m being yanked violently backwards away from Logan.
The thorns pierce my flesh and I scream in pain as I fly through the air.
Logan’s mouth drops open and he lunges, reaching for me. I can see him fighting to get to me, but it’s like there’s an invisible barrier between us. And I know deep in my bones this is one battle he can’t fight for me in spite of his incredible strength.
I reach for him, but more thorny branches pierce my skin.
“Please,” I scream. “Not again!”
But I’m smothered as I’m yanked into the labyrinthine bushes and then swallowed up by the ground.
Buried alive.
I wake with a jolt, wanting to scream. There’s pain, everywhere in my body.
But around me, all I hear is the mundane hum of machines. The murmur of quiet voices in the distance. Before I open my eyes, I know where I am.
My lashes flutter. Each eyelid weighs a thousand pounds. My mouth is full of sand. When I lick my lips to wet them, the skin cracks. I hiss in pain.
There’s an IV needle in my arms. White sheets tuck me into a medical bed. I’m surrounded by gray-blue walls with generic art hung here and there. Even the sunlight is dim and subdued, filtered through the thick glass.
The hospital. I’ve been here before. Too many times.
A chair creaks. Logan’s sitting beside me, his huge body straining the limits of the poor hospital chair. He hasn’t noticed I’m awake yet. His dark head is in his hands, his face bared. He’s not hiding behind masks anymore.
I watch him for a moment, drinking in the sight of his large form in the Thinker’s pose. He’s a sculptor’s wet dream. The muscles of his shoulders, the veins on his forearms—he’s rolled up his shirt sleeves, the white fabric straining with the bulge of his biceps. The handsome slope of his jaw.
I must’ve made some sound, because he raises his head.
“Daphne,” he murmurs.
I blink up at him. It’s like whiplash, going from the dream that felt so real to this. We were just so happy, walking under the sunshine, it was only a moment ago…
But the monster always comes, doesn’t it?
I’ll never be able to escape. It was stupid to ever think I could.
I can calculate how long I’ve been here by the length of stubble on Logan’s face. One, maybe two days?
I open my cracked lips. “Water…”
He offers me a cup with a straw and I sip gratefully. Not so long ago, I cared for my father this same way. When he was on his deathbed. What goes around...
“Where?” I rasp as soon as I can get the word out.
“New Olympus General. The closest hospital to Thornhill was a shithole, so I had them medivac you here.”
“Ah.” I let my head roll on the pillow. I can imagine Logan yelling on the roof of a hospital, loud enough to be heard over the helicopter blades. I want to smile but the muscles of my face feel weak.
“How long?” I ask.
“You’ve been here thirty hours.” He captures my hand and brings it to his face. I twitch a finger against his bristly jaw and find the strength to smile. None of this is his fault. He had no idea what he was getting into with me.
“You...need a shave.”
“Daphne. Fuck.” His big hands swallow my fragile one. For a moment he presses our twined fingers to his forehead, hiding his face behind our hands.
I swallow. The sand is mostly washed from my mouth. Time to ask the hard questions.
“How long?” I ask again.
He raises his head. His eyes are rimmed red. “I just told you—”
When I shake my head, he falls silent.
“How long...do I have left?”
He presses my hand to his face again. “The doctors...fuck.” His voice is muffled. “They don’t know. They say it’s your third relapse.”
“Yes.” I remember the first two quite vividly.
“I read your medical history. Daphne…” He bows his head almost to the bed. His voice comes muffled. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
I set my right hand on his head and stroke his thick hair. Each movement is painful, like my very bones and blood protest.