She lifts one shoulder. “It’s possible, Madam. He was equally distressed.”
I chew my bottom lip as a pang slams my chest. “I noticed.” I offer her a nod as I step out of the room. “Thank you, Mrs. Maisely.”
Concern spliced with the same restlessness and anxiety compels me to make my way up to his room. A serving tray with a silver cover sits untouched just outside the door, and it’s a good enough excuse as any, so I turn the knob and slowly push open the door.
Malachi is flat on his back in bed, breathing long and quietly. He’s shirtless, his lower half covered by the sheet draped across his narrow hips, the muscles of his chest rhythmically flexing and expanding. He looks as deeply asleep as a person could possibly be, and that strengthens my gumption to enter the room despite knowing he wouldn’t want me in here.
Picking up the tray, I slip inside and carry it to a large, leather bench at the foot of his looming four poster bed and set it down. Taking a moment to glance around his room, I can’t help feeling like I’m standing in the middle of an elegant dungeon. Everything about it is dark and old, but beautiful and rich. The furnishings are all mahogany and intricately carved, the linens and draperies in jewel tones that manage to feel cold and hard rather than warm and inviting.
I approach the head of the bed and assess his sleeping expression. It’s not completely neutral, rather his brows and eyelids furrow and flinch intermittently as though he’s in the midst of an intense dream. His complexion is a curious combination of pale with a flush on his cheeks, which are covered with so much stubble that it’s almost a full beard. Thick, dark hair wild and tousled against the pillow. Full lips parted slightly as he inhales and exhales.
He almost looks the way I remember him when I last saw him at twenty years old. Now at thirty-one years old, everything about Malachi is larger than it was. Well-developed muscles and a stronger, sharper jaw. Even at twenty, he was very much a man, but it seems the years have simultaneously built him up and carved him into a far stronger and more imposing adult version of that same man.
It occurs to me that, despite how many times he came to my room for sex with the explicit intention of impregnating me with a child he would refuse to allow me to see, I haven’t seen him with his shirt off since before. Despite his coldness and hatred for me, there’s no denying that he’s a perfect male specimen of hulking shoulders, a large, muscular chest, and a taut, etched granite torso.
Although, it’s clear this perfect male specimen is very sick at the moment. Dark circles around his eyes and lips dry. He’s fast asleep, and I’m so riddled with guilt that I can’t fight the urge to place the back of my hand on his forehead.
It’s as hot and dry as the Mexican desert, and it feels like he has way more than just a touch of fever as Mrs. Maisely mentioned. His skin is hot enough that instinctive worry flushes through my veins, and I reflexively glance at the nightstand in search of a thermometer.
Sure enough, one is sitting there next to a half-empty water glass and a small bottle of acetaminophen.
Picking it up, I glance at him and decide it’s worth the potential wrath of waking him up because merely the feel of heat radiating off his skin tells me the fever is high, and he might actually need a doctor.
“Malachi,” I say quietly.
Nothing.
“Malachi?”
A flinch of his eyelids and a long inhale and exhale.
“Malachi, I need to take your temperature.”
A long, deep, yet quiet groan. “Hm?”
“I need to take your temperature.” I press the button on the thermometer and hover it above his face. “Can you open your mouth?”
Shockingly, after another brief, quiet groan, he complies, albeit with his eyes still closed. I slip the thermometer under his tongue and then give the underside of his chin a gentle nudge to close his mouth.
After a couple of seconds, a high-pitched beep sounds from the thermometer, and I slip it out. The tiny digital screen displays 40.1, and my eyes widen in alarm as my mind quickly does the conversion to Fahrenheit. His temperature is above 104 degrees, and that’s bad.
“Malachi,” I say a bit louder. “Your fever is very high. I think we need to call in a doctor.”
His brow furrows again, and he grumbles low in the back of his throat, but doesn’t otherwise respond.
He’s clearly so sick that he’s completely out of it, and I’m actually a little scared right now because a fever that high is indicative of severe sickness. All of the excruciating boundaries between us seem to dissolve, and right now, he’s just Malachi, and I’m just Isla, and I need to take care of him.
I sit on the edge of the bed next to him and lean close to his face, raising the volume of my voice. “Malachi. I think you should get in a bath to try to bring down your fever.” I glance at the bottle of pills. “Did you take any of this medicine, and if so, when?”
Malachi grumbles again and lifts his hand enough to rest it on my lap. “Islaaaa…” he groans, and if he’s calling me Isla, he’s not all there. “No. I’m not taking a bath.”
Now I’m just frustrated, and I set his hand back on his abs to stand up and step out into the hall. “Mrs. Maisely?” I call into the cavernous center of the palace.
“Your Grace?”
“Can you call the doctor? Tell him the Duke’s fever is over 40 degrees.”
“Oh dear,” she says more under her breath, then speaks louder. “Yes, Madam, of course.”
I return to the room and step into the en suite to dampen a cloth, then carry it back to the bed, where I wipe his face and then drape it across his forehead.
“Islaaaa…” he groans again, flinching. “That’s really fucking cold.”
“It’s cold because your fever is really high.” I sit back down next to him. “Mrs. Maisely is calling the doctor. You’re very sick.”
“Don’t need a doctor,” he mumbles, eyes still closed while he shifts and nestles deeper against the pillow, turning his face more toward me. “You worry too much.”
“You have no concept of the state of my worry because we don’t discuss things like that,” I say off-handedly, picking up the pill bottle to check the dosage on the label so I can determine if I should make him take more. “Did you take any of this medicine?”
He gives a shallow huff. “We don’t discuss things ‘cuz you’re not here.”
“It says every four—” I start to say, but then stop as his statement registers. I set the bottle down and look at him again. “I’m here right now, Malachi. I know you hate me. You have every right to, but we’re just going to set that aside for a—”
“I don’t.”
The two-word denial causes a strange, arrhythmic thump of my heart; almost like I had a small, quick surge of anxiety. I raise my eyebrows and prompt him, “You don’t.”
Malachi draws in another series of long breaths. “No, Isla.”
Now I’m just intrigued. “No? You could’ve fooled me. I don’t blame you eith—”
“You broke my heart,” he murmurs slowly, then moistens his lips, eyes still closed. “But if I hated you, I’d be indifferent to you.” He hums quietly for a second. “Anger… is broken love.”