Page 31

Bryce grabbed the edge of the counter as a surge of dizziness threatened to knock him to his knees. Present. Past. Back and forth until he could barely keep up with the stream of memories.

“Bryce, sit. Please.”

His only salvation was focusing on Rihanna. The sultry violet of her eyes as she guided him to the floor and adjusted his back against the cabinets. He squinted to shut out the rest of his surroundings, everything except for her eyes, as his mind spun and his body suffered the consequences of this altered reality Tilt-A-Whirl.

“Stay. Don’t try to move,” she instructed softly, her voice utterly soothing to his unsettled senses.

He drew up his knee, braced a weak arm on the peak—it took him three attempts before his elbow stayed put—and dropped his head onto his hand. God, what the hell was happening to him? Why couldn’t he function? Why did the dreams attack him so viciously?

He didn’t know how much time passed, but the vertigo began to subside enough that when Rihanna knelt beside him and gathered his limp hand off the floor, he could manage a glance without seeing the entire world shift on its axis. Worry treaded through her eyes, her mouth pinched and expression taut.

“Here. Drink this.” She folded his fingers around the handle of the mug and guided the drink to his mouth. He sipped the hot tea, the potent spices leaving a bitter taste in his mouth, followed by a spicy essence. The spice opened his sinuses and shattered the fog enough for him to start piecingtogether what had happened. “Rest here until you’ve finished the tea.”

With a single finger, she smoothed a chunk of his hair from his eye and cheek, tucking it behind his ear. His skin burned in the path of her airy touch, reigniting the wild urges and desires that led him straight to his ass in the first place. Squeezing his eyes shut against the resumed flashes of dream and reality in his head, he groaned.

“What’s happening to me?”

“I-I don’t know.”

Though her voice remained calm, her growing panic leeched into him, making him more uneasy. Had he misjudged her? His dreams? His beliefs? Were they never meant to be together?

No! Impossible!

The air beside him shifted as she stood, the click of her boots echoing as she moved away. He kept his eyes closed, fearing another fierce episode of vertigo, but the new pain that spread through his chest as the distance grew between them struck him like a bullet. He breathed through the ache, praying he wasn’t having a heart attack at twenty-eight.

Another unknown stretch of time passed. He managed a few more sips of tea as he tried to disperse the strange sensations that threatened to overcome him. Each spiced sip battled away the vertigo, but it returned with a rebound effect.

“Rihanna?”

Other than the vicious rush of blood that sounded like river rapids in his ears, silence surrounded him. He placed the mug on the floor, the bottom clacking the tile as his hand shook. He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his palms, blinked several times, dismayed that the edges of his vision continued to tilt and spin.

“Rihanna?”

Where the hell did she go?

God, please don’t be calling 9-1-1.

The last thing he wanted was for this to turn into a bigger deal than necessary. Maybe he was dehydrated. Maybe all the late-night excursions and alcohol indulgences were finally taking a toll. Maybe he was going through alcohol withdrawal.

He didn’t need a hospital trip.

You’re making a fool of yourself. What a great third impression.

Pushing off the cabinets took more effort than he would ever admit. When he pitched forward, he barely got his arms beneath him. His elbows buckled, dropping him onto his side.

“Rihanna!”

Damn, he felt like he was spinning through a vortex. He fisted his hand and pounded the floor, trying to break through whatever witchcraft sapped his strength. He was reduced to a helpless fool, unable to so much as slither across the floor.

“Goddess!” A few clicks later, gentle hands rolled him onto his back, settled his head onto a lap. When he squinted open his eyes, he gazed up into the angelic face that brought him joy and hope.

A shadow cast over them. He tipped his head back as another figure crouched beside them.

“I don’t understand what ails him,” Rihanna said, voice full of distress. She smoothed a hand over his hair repeatedly, as if that motion alone would bring her answers. “I can’t detect any illness. Brother, please help him.”

The man he’d met once before—an intimidating force to be reckoned with, if he recalled correctly—pressed his hand to Bryce’s forehead. His face remained hazy, the shadows obscuring details while Bryce’s brain fucked with his vision.

“No fever. Have you two discussed the bond?”