Page 78 of Pawn's in the Bishop's Game (Checkmate 1)

Pathetically, my breath hitches. “You promise?”

“I promise. I would never lie to you. Well…” He sniggers. “I lie to you about heaps of shit, but the way my heart likes your heart; I won’t lie to you about that.”

“Come home to me? Please. I can’t sleep without you.”

“Come get me? I can’t drive. I don’t feel so good.”

* * *

Less than tenminutes after ending my call with Kane, I pull up out front of Infernos; the one place that sends my blood cold.

It’s nearly one in the morning. The sky is pitch black, not even the moon or stars illuminate this hell hole, and yet, music slams inside my chest, and lights blink and flicker through the doorway.

Like there’s a constant security detail of creeps waiting to break women, men step out of alleyways and around the corner of the club. They hold their dicks, pinch cigarettes between their lips and show off stained and broken teeth.

They watch me sit idle at the curb.

How is Kane the sweet man I know deep, deep inside, when he comes here every day?

How has he not absorbed their poison yet?

Maybe he has.

“Blondie!” The door swings open and scares the crap out of me. Kane flops into the passenger seat and turns to me with glassy eyes.

The overhead lights reflect in almost dead orbs and break my heart. Where his eyes are usually large and round, sparkling and beautifully dark, tonight his pupils have swallowed them whole. Sweat drips over his still bruised face, and his cheeks, normally a dark tan, now shine with a gray tinge.

His muscles bulge and strain his shirt.

His large hands shake and make me sick to my stomach.

He looks like he’s dying.

“Kane?” The tears that I pulled under control at my apartment now burn the backs of my eyes. I press my palm to his forehead. “What’s wrong with you?”

He dives across the seats and throws his weight at me. Wrapping sweaty arms around my shoulders, he pulls me in tight. “I wanna go home, Blondie. Please take me home.”

“Okay.” I reach up and run my nails through his short hair. “I’ll take you home. I’ll take care of you.” I pull his face back and look into his dead eyes. “What’s wrong with you? What happened?”

“I don’t feel so good. I don’t wanna fuck anymore, I just wanna go to bed.”

“You’re really warm, Kane. What’s the matter?” Worry turns to frustration when his eyes refuse to maintain contact. “Why are you hot?” I lower my palm to his chest and choke at the thunder of his heart. So fast. So unbelievably hard. “Do you wanna go to the hospital?”

“Can’t go to the hospital, not allowed. Take me to bed.” His eyes flash for half a beat – my only warning – before he spins away, slams the car door open, and hurls all over the pitch-black road.

Heavy vomit, noisy and sickening, wracks his large frame and forces me to hold my breath.

Sympathy spewing is not what we need right now.

As soon as his back relaxes, as soon as he pulls the dark maroon shirt over his head and wipes his face, he slumps back into his seat and closes his eyes. “Home, baby. Please.”

“Okay.” I climb across his thighs and pull the door closed. His hands latch onto my hips like he can’t help his instincts to protect me, but his eyes remain closed and his chest rises and falls at a scarily fast pace. “It’s okay. I’ll take you to bed. I promise to take care of you.”

“‘Kay, thank you.” He slumps in his seat as much as he can manage until his knees almost touch his chest. As I pull out into the street, his hand blindly searches for mine, so I take it and twine our fingers together. His are sticky and fiery hot, but I don’t let go. I don’t dare let him go. “Nobody ever took care of me before, beautiful. My daddy woulda beat my ass for being sick.”

“You got in trouble for vomiting?”

“Mm.” His face scrunches in pain. “My daddy’d beat me to shit just for giggles.”

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