Page 72 of The Beast Who Bought Me
All the soft thoughts I’ve been having about Caligula Clemenza evaporate in an instant. Ofcoursehe hasn’t eaten. He’s trying to manipulate me. He knows that if he doesn’t eat, I’ll go down there, give him another chance to drip poison in my ear, to persuade me to take him into my bed again.
I grab the tray. “I’llmakehim eat.”
But when I get down to the basement, he’s lying on the bed asleep. Even when I put the lights up to full, he doesn’t wake. I stand over him, studying the clammy sheen of his skin, the way his breathing seems too shallow.
“Caligula,” I say at last.
He starts awake, holding up his hand to shield his eyes from the light. “Dad?” he croaks, and something that had died down roars back to life in my chest.
I seize his wrist, angry not at him, but at the broken, lost sound in his voice. “Your father is as dead as mine,” I tell him savagely. “He won’t save you.”
He’s still blinking at me, his eyes clouded. “Sorry,” he mumbles at last.
The apology shouldn’t affect me, but it does. He looks so young and so lost…
Oh, he’sgood. He’s good, this little Clemenza.
“Get up. Why didn’t you eat? Or shower? Youwilltake care of yourself, or you will regret it. You hear me?”
He looks around as though confused. “I’m tired,” he says, and there’s something wrong with his voice, with the way he’s swaying slightly as he gets to his feet.
“You’ve had enough sleep. Go and shower.”
He gives me a glassy look and then struggles off the bed, heading for the shower stall. I go to my chair and sit there to watch. Once he’s clean, I’ll feed him. I’ll shove the food down his throat if I have to.
He turns on the water and stands under it, leaning forward with his hands on the back wall, head down.
And then he stumbles to the side, slamming into the glass wall. It holds, but he slides down it to land in a crumpled heap on the tiled floor.
He stays there, unmoving.
Fuck.
I bolt over, dropping to my knees beside him. Water soaks through my clothes, but I barely notice. His skin is burning up, fever radiating from him in waves.
“Hey,” I say, gathering him against my chest, and he’s so light, too light. “Caligula. Wake up.”
He doesn’t respond, head lolling against my shoulder like a broken doll. Something rises up in me, completely alien. I think it’s panic.
I never panic. Not since I was thirteen.
I lift him easily, water streaming from both of us as I carry him back to the bed. His breathing is too fast, too shallow, and his skin is paper-white except for the fever flush on his cheeks. My hands shake as I check his pulse, as I smooth the wet hair back from his burning forehead. He’s not faking it. He’s sick.
He’s very, very sick.
CHAPTER 27
CALIGULA
I wakeup drowning in Damiano’s scent.
The smell hits me before my eyes even open, sending pleasant sparks straight to my balls despite my fuzzy head. And I know immediately where I am—not just in bed, but inhisbed.
Damiano’s bed.
The room takes shape slowly as consciousness returns. I stare at the windows for a long time, taking in the absolute lack of view, before it occurs to me that the shutters are still down. My pulse quickens when I realize I’m not alone—and then just about stops when I see it’s not Damiano Orsini.
A woman leans over me. A petite blonde with a messy bun and pink scrubs, holding a digital thermometer. She’s got kind eyes, but beneath that, the alertness of a health professional.
