Page 62 of Kill for a Kiss

This time, I don’t answer. I close my eyes and let myself feel everything I’ve been holding back. His steadiness. His silence. How he’s never demanded anything of me, only offered his care without condition.

***

Time continues to drift between moments of rest, returning fever, and repetitive pain. I drift in and out of sleep, but when I wake, Sterling is always there.

He lifts a spoon toward me. I part my lips without hesitation, letting him feed me. It feels intimate. Our own quiet private moment, awayfrom the world.

His fingers brush my lip as he draws the spoon back, and I shiver. The reaction lives deep in my chest. He notices. He doesn’t mention it.

The firelight casts a golden glow across his features. He looks softened by it, though none of his sharpness fades. There’s still strength in his posture, tension beneath his skin, but the warmth touches him.

The worst of the sickness has passed. I feel closer to myself again, tired but awake. I watch the way his eyes look into mine like he’s checking for pain, for fever, or for signs. His brows are drawn like he’s working through a thought he won’t say out loud.

I could stay silent and let the peace hold. But instead, words leave my lips, desperate to reach him.

“Sterling,” I whisper, “you were made to be looked at.”

His body stills. The spoon halts midair. His fingers tighten around it. His cheeks go pink.

When he speaks, his voice is tight. “Eat.”

So I part my lips again, and he feeds me the next bite, but his hand isn’t as steady now. His breathing’s off. But I don’t point it out. Instead, I chew slowly, watching him from beneath my lashes. He won’t look at me. But I’m still watching him.

I’m afraid I’ll forget how he looks if I so much as blink. And I never want to forget Sterling. I want him etched into every corner of my mind. Because he’s the quiet that calms my pain. He’s the reason my heart keeps pushing forward, finally full of hope.

17

Elle

Time continues to slip, but Sterling is a constant. He soothes my aches. His hand rests against my forehead, cool and steady, and I lean into it without thinking. My eyes fall shut. The fire crackles nearby, but the warmth I feel doesn’t come from it. It comes from him.

When I open my eyes, I catch the tension in his brow, the way his mouth is pressed tight. He’s waiting for something to go wrong. But his hand lingers, and when nothing happens, he exhales like he’s been holding that breath for hours.

“You’re good,” he says quietly. “Better.”

His voice is rough, scratched from disuse or exhaustion. But the corners of his lips twitch upward the tiniest bit. That almost-smile does something to me. He doesn’t know how rare it is, how rareheis.

I smile back. And then, under his breath, almost like he didn’t mean to say it at all, he mutters, “That’s the most beautiful smile I’ve ever seen.”

I blink up at him. His eyes widen a little, and he looks away fast. Perhaps he’s hoping I didn’t catch that. But I did.

I stare at him for a moment, and suddenly it becomes so obvious I don’t know how I missed it. He looks drained. There’s shadow under his eyes, a pale cast to his skin, a tension in his jaw that speaks of too many nights without rest. He’s been taking care of me so much he forgot to take care of himself.

That’s probably why he said it, why it slipped out. But the fact that it did slip out, that he looked at me while tired, and still said such sweet words? My heart wants to jump out of my chest. I don’t know what to do with that. But now I’m worried about him.

“You’re sleep-deprived,” I murmur.

He glances at me warily. “What?”

I tug the blanket a little higher. “I’m guessing you haven’t slept.”

He breathes sharply through his nose, sounding defensive and embarrassed. “I didn’t mean to say it out loud.”

“I figured.”

He clears his throat and looks away.

“You’ve been taking care of me,” I say. “And I’m grateful.”