Page 54 of Cain

Doctors don’t understand either. They never did. They never found a reason for my high fever. Always the same words: “No apparent reason.”

But I know. It happened often, especially when my father yelled at me, when he locked me in my room for misbehaving, for speaking out of turn, or for simply not being the daughter he wanted. The burning fever would rise, consuming me like my body was punishing me the way he did. I remember lying in bed, shivering and drenched in sweat, while the walls of my room felt like they were closing in, corroding around me.

And now, all these years later, it’s happening again. But this time, it’s not because of my father. It’s him.

The fever comes when fear creeps in when I feel trapped, and when I start questioning whether I’m losing myself. My body knows before I do.

“You need to eat something,” she insists. “You need to be strong.”

“Or what? Your boss will punish you for leaving me to die?” I jeer. Eleanor is probably an unlucky prisoner, just like me, and I shouldn’t talk to her this way. But something feels off with her. Perhaps she’s grown accustomed to it and begun to consider it normal.

Unbothered, she pours some tea into the mug and sets the teapot beside it again.

“You won’t die because of fever.”

My eyes roll back involuntarily. I regret that I asked her to call me by my first name. I’m glad she didn’t, though.

Suddenly, the door swings open, making both of us jolt from surprise. It’s him.

“Mr. Manson,” she says quietly and lowers her eyes.

He doesn’t talk. He marches up to me and gently presses his hand on my forehead. I draw myself back as much as I can. The bed keeps me caged, and he blocks the only way out.

“Is there a particular reason that I wasn’t informed about her condition?” he asks Eleanor sternly, maintaining eye contact with me.

Eleanor’s demeanor shifts. She becomes awkward. Scared. “I … I?—”

“Get the hell out of here before I decide you’ve made the worst mistake of your life,” he growls.

She gulps. “Yes, Mr. Manson.” She lowers her head and walks away.

Slowly and without tearing his dark green eyes off me, he takes a seat on the bed next to me.

“Could you be more savage?” I scoff, annoyed, and turn my head away.

He raises a brow. “That wasn’t savage at all, little rose.”

I don’t talk, and I keep my eyes away from his. I don’t want to look at him. I’m sure he’s going to affect me again and make me feel things I don’t want to.

He lets out a deep breath through his nostrils and presses his palm on my forehead again. “The doctor is on his way.”

“What?” I jump in surprise. “You called a doctor?”

“Contrary to what you think, little rose, I don’t wish you harm.”

“But …” I falter, letting my mind race. “Aren’t you afraid I will ask him for help?”

“Well, you can do that.” He rubs his stubble. “If you want me to kill him.”

“You are a savage!”

He laughs brightly, as if my surprise amuses him.

Gosh, his smile.

It deepens, turning into a predator’s grin. Dangerous, yet undeniably magnetic. His eyes never leave mine, as if he’s seeing through my soul. Like the devil.

He leans in closer, making my heart race. “You think I’m a savage?” he murmurs.