Page 16 of Splintered Memories (Ember Hollow Romance #2)

Emersyn

I was dying.

That’s what it felt like, at least, when I’d woken in the middle of the night, sick to my stomach. I’d spent the majority of the early morning hours puking my guts up in my attached bathroom.

I shivered as the sound of someone calling my name pulled me out of my restless sleep. I gripped the towel I’d thrown over myself. A low groan slipped from my lips. Everything was sore and hurting. Sweat slicked my skin, though I was absolutely freezing.

My body curled in on itself tighter as I pried my eyelids open. I was lying on the bathroom floor in front of the toilet, one towel draped over me and one rolled up under my head as a makeshift pillow.

I heard my name again. My teeth chattered as I let loose a pained moan.

I couldn’t gather enough energy to sit up as August flung open the door to my bathroom.

My aching stomach dropped, and he was at my side in an instant, one hand pressed against the small of my back.

I flinched away from him, but he put his other palm against my cheek, forcing my face to his.

I tried not to revel in the warmth of that hand on my face, tried not to lean into it as his eyes glazed over with concern. He was speaking, but I wasn’t paying attention. Those gray eyes flicked to my forehead, where my bandage was. That stare filled with panic when I didn’t reply.

“I’m…fine,” I croaked, my voice sounding like it was coated with sand. “My head is…it’s fine. I think I’m just sick.”

By the time I’d retched up the contents of my stomach for the fourth time, I was sure I’d caught whatever stomach bug Lark had.

August’s hand moved to my forehead, and he cursed. “You’re burning up.”

I closed my eyes again and pushed my face into the towel-pillow. “Go away,” I muttered.

The hand August had on my back rubbed in slow circles, soothing my aching muscles. “I’m not going to leave you sick on the bathroom floor.” He said it like it was the most ridiculous thing he’d ever heard.

I groaned again. I didn’t have the energy for this. When I continued to ignore him, he pushed back the wisps of hair sticking to the sides of my face. My skin tingled where the rough calluses of his fingertips grazed.

“Let’s get you into bed.” His voice was a soft whisper in my ear, startling me.

When had he gotten so close?

I forced my eyes open again. August’s face was inches from my own as he leaned over me.

In the sunlight filtering in through the window, I made out the small scars on his skin.

There were a few of them: one curving below his lower lip, another on the left side of his forehead and under his right eye.

They were nothing but soft, white lines that weren’t noticeable unless viewed close up.

His brows drew together as he watched me. “Can you get up?” Concern filled his tone.

I gave him a slow blink, pulling myself out of my fever-induced fog. My mouth pulled down as I took stock of myself. I was so tired. “No.”

The thought made the nausea surge.

August nodded. “Okay.”

Relief hit me. I thought he was finally going to leave me alone, but instead, he wrapped his arms around me.

“What are you doing?” I snapped, tensing.

He looked confused. “I’m going to carry you to your bed.”

“No.” I refrained from shaking my head, in case it made me too dizzy. “I’ll puke on you.”

It might’ve been the fever, but I could’ve sworn he chuckled. “That’s all right.”

No, it certainly was not all right. But before I could argue, August slipped one arm around my shoulders, hooking the other under my knees. So gently I barely noticed the shift, he lifted me up and pulled me against his chest.

I let out a foreign noise that was somewhere between a squeal and a gasp as my hands curled into the soft fabric of his T-shirt.

“I got you,” he said softly against the curve of my ear.

I pressed my forehead against his chest, ignoring the twinge of pain from the gash as I clenched my jaw shut, willing myself not to puke all over him as he stood up.

August was unbelievably steady as he walked.

The motion of his steps swayed slightly, but I focused on the warmth of his body, the strength of his arms curled around me.

If my brain wasn’t currently burning itself senseless, I would’ve roiled against being touched like this.

I would’ve fought with every ounce of strength I had.

But I supposed there wasn’t any strength left in me, because my body was placid, dangling from his grip.

We were almost to my bed when a wave of nausea hit me. My stomach cramped, and I stiffened. My fingers curled tighter into his shirt as my molars ground together in a desperate attempt to not throw up all over him.

August stilled, pausing as I rode out the queasiness.

“You okay?” he eventually asked, still not moving.

The muscles in my jaw ached as I forced it open. “I can’t lay in bed. I don’t—I don’t want to vomit all over my sheets.”

He gave a barely perceptible shrug. “I can wash the sheets if that happens.”

I was going to argue again, but he took the few steps to my bed and lowered me into it. A sigh slipped from my lips as I sank into the soft mattress. My eyes closed as if on their own as I curled up on my side.

August pulled my comforter over my body and the warmth started to chase away the chills. Those rough fingertips brushed against my forehead, so very gently.

“You didn’t change your bandage last night.”

No, I hadn’t. I’d been too tired when I’d dragged myself to my room. As I thought back, my whole body had been aching. I’d assumed it was from the attack, but now I was pretty sure it was from whatever virus raged through my system.

A soft sigh, and a low chuckle tickled my ears. “You stubborn woman. ”

I wanted to scowl back at him, but I couldn’t get my eyes to open. My stomach was still in knots and everything hurt, but being in bed was a comfort I hadn’t known I’d needed. I couldn’t remember the last time I was sick like this. I never got sick.

A hand squeezed my shoulder. “I’ll be right back.”

I wanted to tell him that he didn’t need to come back, I could take care of myself. But I couldn’t find the words. They got lost on the journey from my brain to my mouth.

I was asleep before August’s footsteps disappeared.

S omething tugged at my forehead, followed by a wisp of pain that made me wince.

I struggled to open my eyes. When I did, I saw nothing but August. His lips were pursed, brow furrowed in concentration as he squinted at my forehead.

“What…” I started, but didn’t have the energy to finish the sentence.

August kept his eyes pinned on my forehead. “I’m changing your bandage and inspecting your wound.”

Oh, right. That.

He reached for something on the bedside table.

A bottle of antibiotic ointment and a fresh bandage.

I wasn’t sure why, but I didn’t want to look away.

He placed a dab of the ointment on the pad of the bandage before he carefully applied it over the gash on my skin.

I hadn’t realized he’d already removed the old bandage. That was probably what had woken me .

His fingers were feather soft as he secured the adhesive, and then he met my eyes. “It looks good. It’ll be mostly healed in a few days.”

I already knew that. I stared at him, confused about why he was still in my room. This wasn’t a part of his job description. I had read the contract.

“What?” He frowned at the look on my face.

I narrowed my eyes but didn’t reply.

His mouth thinned, but something glimmered in his eyes. “If I would’ve known that sickness would paralyze that sharp tongue of yours, I might’ve tried to get you infected sooner.”

I rolled my eyes, and a low chuckle rumbled in his chest. We stared at each other then, neither of us speaking. That glimmer of humor dissipated as worry replaced it.

“Here.” He reached for the bedside table again. He pushed a few pills into my hand and offered me a glass of water. “Take these. It’s some ibuprofen, but hopefully it’ll bring that fever down and help with the muscle aches.”

I wondered how he knew about the aches, but I didn’t linger on the thought as I tossed the medicine in my mouth and grabbed the water. I was careful, only taking a very small sip and praying that it stayed down.

After I swallowed, August frowned. “You should probably drink more. You don’t want to get dehydrated.”

I gingerly shook my head. I wouldn’t risk putting anything more into my stomach, so I pushed the water back into his hand.

He let out a dissatisfied sigh. “It’ll be right there if you need it.

” He placed the glass back on the table.

“There’s also some juice with electrolytes if you’d rather have that, and a sleeve of crackers.

It’s all where you can reach.” His hand thumped against something near my bedside, too close to the floor for me to see.

“I grabbed a five-gallon bucket from the garage. If you’ve gotta hurl, do it in there. ”

I grimaced but appreciated the thoughtfulness. Being in bed was much better than the bathroom floor.

My eyes met his. I studied those hues of gray, some so light they were a sparkling silver in the light.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” He raised a brow.

I blinked, not sure I wanted to answer. “Why are you doing all of this?” My voice was a raspy whisper.

He frowned again, the fine lines around his eyes deepening. He reached for me, and I didn’t flinch away as he tucked a wayward lock of hair behind my ear. “You’re sick,” he said simply, as if that were explanation enough.

My eyebrows narrowed, the skin pulling against the small wound on my forehead. “So?” It didn’t make sense. What did he have to gain from this? My father wasn’t paying him enough to risk getting puked on. Or worse, contracting this virus himself. He should be staying far away from me.

His eyes widened as understanding flashed within them. My chest ached at the tenderness that accompanied it.

“Emersyn.” He said my name with such gentle caution, as if he were treading on thin glass. “Has no one ever taken care of you when you were sick?”

Something deep inside me shuddered, and it had nothing to do with the fever or the nausea. Memories stirred, old and splintered things I’d tried so hard to forget.

I didn’t remember when it had started, but I was very young the first time I recall being ill.

My mother had gotten so upset, livid because of my constant whining.

She told me that I was being manipulative, trying to take her attention away from all the things she needed to get done.

I was being so selfish, she’d said, that I couldn’t really be that sick.

She had locked me alone in my room until I stopped my pathetic act.

I remember feeling so confused because I wasn’t pretending.

I had tried to convince myself that maybe I wasn’t sick.

So, I’d laid in my bed, alone, trying to fight the symptoms, as if I could make myself better by sheer will alone.

Eventually, I’d lost that battle. It hadn’t mattered how tight I’d clenched my jaw or how many times I swallowed the sickness down—I’d thrown up on my carpet anyway.

And when my mother had found the mess I’d made all over—

I wrenched myself out of the thoughts, the memories, shoving them back down into the dark depths of my soul, where they couldn’t be seen.

My breaths hitched as my stomach cramped, the sharp claws of nausea digging into my gut. Just like all those years ago, I fought against it.

“Hey.” The sound of his voice grounded me as he touched my hand. “Breathe.”

I hadn’t realized I was gasping. Damn it . I needed to get hold of myself, but it was hard when I was so exhausted and feverish.

Those strong fingers gripped my hand. August lifted my palm and pressed it against his chest. “Focus on filling your lungs,” he instructed, voice low and soft. His chest expanded with a deep breath. “Then let it out slowly.”

My hand dipped as his chest deflated at a steady, measured pace .

He continued that rhythm, breathing in and out, my hand pressed against his chest until I mimicked him. A tightness I hadn’t registered loosened in my ribs and lungs, my breaths becoming easier and even.

I stared at my hand. August hadn’t let go and it was sandwiched between his firm chest and his warm palm. His thumb swept over my knuckles in slow circles.

Shadows of exhaustion crept up on me, and I welcomed them as my eyelids grew so heavy I couldn’t keep them open a moment longer. I thought, for a brief moment, that maybe having August Ramsey as my bodyguard wasn’t the worst thing after all.