Page 25

That was as close to “I love you” as they’d gotten. Kensley squeezed his hand. “I’ll rest, I promise. I don’t want anything taking us away from each other.”

“Me, either. Today, I get to pamper you.”

“You already pamper me.”

“Well, I’ll extra-pamper you today. I’ll massage your feet. I’ll even read you a book, if none of the DVDs appeal.”

This home’s DVD collection was a nice upgrade from the cabin’s VHS tapes, but the selection was still limited, not recent by about ten years, and a lot more action films than Kensley preferred.

So, they hadn’t watched a lot of them. Bishop kept the Wi-Fi on his phone off most of the time, unless he needed to check for emails from King. But King usually called.

“I’d love it if you read to me,” Kensley said. “I love your voice. Will you act out the characters?”

“I’ll do my best.”

And that’s how they spent their Sunday morning, lounging in the shade on the back patio, while Bishop read to him from a collection of short stories set in and around the Bahamas.

He did his best with voices, but after totally butchering what should have been an Australian accent (the character was a tourist), Kensley begged him to read normally.

Kensley attempted a simple peanut butter sandwich at lunchtime, but five minutes later, Bishop was holding the basin while Kensley upchucked.

After getting Kensley cleaned up and comfortable in bed again, Bishop demanded they take Kensley’s temperature.

It was only up by a degree and a half, but that upset Bishop in a new way.

He began to pace, phone in his hand, mumbling to himself.

Kensley hated seeing him so unraveled by Kensley barfing twice, but he was also a little anxious about why he was sick.

And they were miles from a medical facility.

Who knew if the nearest hospital had ever treated an omega patient before?

Which shouldn’t really matter, because his stomach was upset, that was all. The flu, bad shellfish, too much sunshine and salt air? Nothing to stress over.

Right?

Bishop was losing his damned mind, and he hated it.

He’d seen other people sick and weak, and he hadn’t felt as completely helpless as he did right now, with his charus sick in bed and sporting a slight fever.

Not a serious fever, but still, a fever.

The house had a first aid kit, but no anti-nausea medicine, only aspirin that was three months out of date.

He’d brought antacids from his own apartment, but they were unlikely to help.

Normally, he’d wait and let King call him. This time, he wasn’t waiting. He excused himself from the bedroom and strode down the hall to the living room.

“What’s wrong?” King asked.

“Kensley’s sick. He’s thrown up twice in less than twelve hours, and he has a low-grade fever.”

“Fuck. Any other symptoms?”

“He’s kind of lethargic, but he hasn’t eaten much. He also seems restless, which I know sounds contradictory, but I was reading to him earlier, and he kept twisting his fingers, or picking at his shirt. I don’t think he realized he was doing it.”

King was silent for a long, irritating moment. “Okay, I still need you to sit tight for now.”

Bishop swallowed a growl.

“Keep an eye on him,” King continued. “If his symptoms get worse, or his fever spikes, call Walsh, so he can take you guys to the nearest hospital. For now, I’m going to get Ziggy on top of finding a doctor in the area we can pay off to make a house call, no questions asked. And then I’ll relocate you.”

“Why not just get us out of here now?”

King grunted, his annoyance at being questioned clear in the sound. “That’s our plan, Bishop. Keep looking after my brother, until I can get help to you. Text me if anything changes.”

“All right.” Bishop stabbed at his phone screen, then shoved the damned thing into his pocket. He did not like sitting around and waiting when an emergency was looming. He needed to act. He needed to fix whatever was wrong with Kensley, but he didn’t know how.

Fury mounting, Bishop returned to the bedroom. Kensley was curled on his side, arms around a pillow, face pinched. Bishop sat and cuddled up behind him, wishing he could pull Kensley right inside and keep him safe from everyone in the world—even his own rebelling body.

“We’re to stay put for now,” Bishop said in a harsh whisper. “King is working on getting a doctor we can trust. But if you get suddenly worse, we’re to call Walsh for a lift to the nearest hospital.”

“A lift? Are we going to drive across the ocean?”

“Hardly. There’s a puddle jumper on the island. Walsh can fly it. It’s for supply runs and emergencies.”

“This might just count, huh?”

“Maybe. Hope not. I’d rather we get a doctor here than subject you to a public hospital. Too many strangers, too many variables.”

“The other island had strangers.”

“True, but it didn’t have strangers wearing masks, concealing their identities. I don’t trust hospitals.”

“A hospital saved your life.”

Bishop’s back scars gave phantom twinges of pain. “They also allowed men inside who would have killed me if King hadn’t already faked my death and gotten me out of there.”

“I’m sorry.”

“None of that was your fault, sweetheart. Right now, you’re bearing the brunt of our sins, and you don’t deserve this.”

“Maybe not, but I got you, didn’t I? I got us, and I don’t regret a single moment of our time together, Bishop.

I swear.” Kensley grabbed one of Bishop’s hands and kissed his knuckles.

“No matter how this ends, I don’t regret anything.

I wasn’t truly living until the day we escaped the abbey, so thank you. ”

“No, thank you , Kens. I wasn’t living, either.” He pressed his nose into the crook of Kensley’s neck and inhaled deeply. He tried putting all his hopes and dreams and promises into their embrace, holding Kensley tight without crushing him. “Let’s keep living this life for as long as we can.”

“Okay.”

By late evening, Bishop was a furious, anxious mess waiting for Walsh to arrive with a doctor that Ziggy had vetted.

Kensley had continued to throw up anything he tried consuming, even plain water, and by the time King called about the doctor, his fever was lingering at 101 F.

Dr. Fatima was expected to arrive around ten, and by the time nine-fifty rolled around, Bishop wanted to punch the wall. Maybe break furniture.

Kensley, on the other hand, was shivering in bed, pale and miserable, but strangely calm, considering the circumstances. “It could just be the flu,” Kensley kept saying. His constant need to reassure Bishop made him love Kensley even more—but it didn’t relax him one iota.

At nine-fifty-three, the thunderous noise of a small, low-flying plane filled the air, and Bishop’s chest squeezed with hope.

Help was on the way. Bishop double-checked his gun was loaded, safety off, ready, and then tucked it back into the holster.

He needed to anticipate trouble at every turn, especially in the middle of a minor crisis.

They didn’t even have an evacuation plan in place.

King said it depended on what was wrong with Kensley and if it was safe to move him, or if they needed to go straight to a hospital. Dr. Fatima should be able to tell them.

Soon.

Bishop stalked to the front door and stood to the side, peering out one of the side windows.

Watched until headlights flashed from the direction of the opening gate.

They slowly approached. Bishop squinted, able to make out shapes in both the driver and passenger seats, but the headlight glare obscured their faces.

The Jeep circled around and stopped, the passenger side facing the house.

Right hand resting slightly behind his back, Bishop opened the front door with his left. Took half a stride out on the stone steps.

A woman with dark hair slid out of the passenger side, a woven bag in one hand. She was tall, wore a blue-and-yellow dress, and she took a full step forward before pausing. “Drew Burton?” she asked in a deep, lightly accented voice.

Bishop tensed, fingers brushing the butt of his gun, adrenaline narrowing his focus to the woman’s free hand, which was covered by the sleeve of her dress.

He couldn’t have been more suspicious of the woman if she had said his real name.

King only would have given the doctor the name on his passport.

He shifted his attention to the person in the driver’s seat, barely able to make them out past the doctor’s shoulder.

Dr. Fatima took a wide step to the side, and Bishop barely had time to draw his own weapon before he heard the shot. Something slammed into his chest and knocked him backward, right into darkness.