Page 76 of Emperor of Corruption
Then again… this apartment is no longer my domain or my safe haven. Not after what happened in my bedroom, and the chills I get every time I go in there, even if it’s just to grab a change of clothes.
Killian helps me take a few sips of tea, then gentles me back down. “You should be in bed,” he says, frowning.
I shake my head, even though the movement makes my headache grow a thousand times worse. “No bedroom,” I whisper.
His frown deepens. “Why?” Without waiting for an answer, he stands and goes to my bedroom. My heart lodges in my throat. If he digs around too much, he’ll find things that aren’t meant to be found. He’ll discover my second laptop and phone. I can’t even stand to hit the kill-switch programmed onto my main phone—an app that Tommy had me download, disguised as a game, which automatically shuts down the tech he gave me and fries the hard drives if I click the right buttons.
Killian stalks back out, no phone or laptop in hand. I nearly cry in relief.
“Why don’t you want to be in bed?” his eyes narrow, and then recognition dawns on him. His face goes blank, and for a moment, something eerily close toguiltflashes across his eyes. “Oh, Little Bird,” he murmurs, crossing the room and taking a seat on the couch. He lifts my legs and settles them on his lap, then gently starts massaging my calves. My lips part at the casual, intimate gesture. He’s taking care of me—looking after me even though he calls me filth and claims I’m unworthy of him.
“You can’t let what happened change your routine. We’ve spoken about this. If you give me or anyone else the power to fuck with your life, you’ll never be anything more than an ant in the colony.”
I squeeze my eyes shut, blocking him out. I don’t want any lectures from him when he’s the one who put me in this position.
Even so… his words have a ring of truth to them. He’s horrible in every way a man can be horrible, but he’s also right. I’m giving him an inordinate amount of power over me—power he doesn’t deserve.
Power nobody deserves.
I hate him, but I can’t deny that the guidance and insight Killian offers me—although cruel—is also often spot-on.
I must fall asleep, because what feels like seconds later, there’s something cold being pressed to my chest. I force my eyes open—there’s an unfamiliar man leaning over me. He’s wearing a blue mask to protect himself from my germs, and pressing a stethoscope to my skin. I'm so exhausted I can barely hear the conversation he and Killian hold, but I catch snippets.
“Sodium, water, and antibiotics,” the doctor says. “If she gets any worse, she needs to go to the ER.”
The next minutes—hours?—are spent with me falling in and out of consciousness. I wake up repeatedly to Killian slipping a thermometer into my mouth, Killian sitting me up to feed me soup or water, Killian massaging my legs and my feet, Killian murmuring admonishments for me not looking after myself.
Killian, Killian, Killian. He’s all I see, all Ismell. I wonder why he’s still here—why he hasn’t left me alone to suffer my way through this horrible cold. I’d ask, but I don’t have the strength.
At one point, I open my eyes to see him leaning over me. His tie’s undone, his collar’s unbuttoned, and his expression istorturedas he holds up a cup of water and handful of pills.Is he gettingsick?
“What are you doing to me?” he breathes.
I frown. “Huh?” The word scrapes against my throat, painful and raw.
“This isn’t who I am,” he tells me, helping me sit up. “I’m not a caretaker. What the fuck are youdoing to me, Lyra?”
“Nothing,” I rasp.
“Liar,” he whispers. “You’re not doingnothing.”
“Then what am I doing?”
He stares hard at me. “Everything.”
I pass out after he feeds me soup to wash down the medication.
When I wake up again, the worst symptoms have receded. My throat is still scraped raw, but my brain is significantly less foggy, and I feel fairly lucid. The muscle aches have waned, leaving behind only a feeling of bone-deep weakness.
Killian isstill here. On the couch, my feet balanced on his legs, his phone out and gaze narrowed on the screen.
“What day is it?” I breathe.
He glances at me, brows lifting. “Thursday. 8p.m. You had a very long night.” He cocks his head to the side. “You look better—less pale. How are you feeling?”
“Better,” I murmur, sitting up. My head still spins, but it’s much more manageable. “Have you been here the entire time?”
He pauses, then nods carefully.
