Page 98 of Sacrifice
I bring him soup from the kitchen, watch him eat slowly.
Color's coming back to his face, that scary gray pallor fading.
His hands are steadier too, though I notice he's favoring his injured arm more than usual.
"I was scared," I admit quietly. "When I woke up and you were burning up..."
"Takes more than a little infection to kill me."
"It wasn't little. Mom said another day without treatment and you'd have been in real trouble."
He sets the bowl aside, pulls me close with his good arm. "But I wasn't. Because you took care of me. My fierce woman."
"Your stubborn woman who's not letting you do any club business for at least twenty-four hours."
"We'll see about that."
"Emil—"
"Okay, okay. Twelve hours."
"Twenty-four."
"Eighteen."
"Deal." I kiss him softly. "But only because you're injured and I'm feeling generous."
We settle into the quiet.
Him dozing, me reading one of the books someone left here—a thriller about, ironically, motorcycle clubs.
It's domestic in a way I never expected from us.
No crisis, no violence, just... being together.
I watch him sleep, noting how young he looks when the hard edges soften.
Without the constant vigilance, the controlled violence always simmering beneath the surface, he could be any man.
But he's not, he's mine.
Around dinner time, he's more himself.
Sitting up without help, arguing about getting out of bed.
"I need a shower," he insists. "I smell like fever, sweat, and death."
"You smell like a man who needs to rest."
"Saga." His voice drops to that tone that usually makes me melt. "Shower. Please. I'll let you help."
"Oh, you'llletme? How generous."
"Woman, I'm trying to compromise here."
"Fine. But I'm helping, and if you so much as wobble, we're done."
The shower is awkward but necessary.
