Chapter 7: Fever

Abel and the aunts got him up the stairs and into his own bed, and then they all looked at me.

"The wolfsbane has to sweat out," the oldest aunt said. "Water, cold cloths, and somebody to keep him from getting up."

"I'll call the clinic," I said.

"The clinic is two hours away, honey, and it can't help him."

"Then who watches him?"

Four old women and Abel looked at the floor.

"He listens to you," Abel said, very carefully.

"He does not."

"He said your name the whole drive back in the truck. Over and over."

"Get out," I said, and they went, fast.

I shut the door.

The room was dark wood and a big bed, with a window over the pines.

Ronan lay across the quilt with his shirt cut open and the dart wound swollen and purple on his shoulder.

His skin was so hot I could feel it from the door.

I filled a basin in the bathroom and sat down on the edge of the bed with a cloth.

He opened his eyes.

"You're still here," he said.

"I told you I'd stay."

"You said that about the old man."

"I'm staying about you too, apparently. Lie still."

I cleaned the wound.

He hissed through his teeth and caught my wrist.

"Terms," I said.

"I know the terms." His voice was a rasp. "You said I couldn't touch you."

"I did."

"I'm touching you."

"I noticed."

He didn't let go, and I didn't pull away.

I wiped his chest with the cloth.

The skin there was ridged and scarred, and it jumped under my hand.

I wiped his stomach.

He stopped breathing, and when he started again it was rough.

I looked down.

He was hard under his jeans, and there was no hiding it, and he turned his face into the pillow.

"Ignore it," he said. "It's the fever."

"Is it."

"Yes."

"The fever knows my name?"

He laughed, a short, wrecked sound.

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