He tried to stay awake to remain aware of her presence, but weariness took hold, and he fell asleep.
He awoke once with an oddly scratchy throat. He drank some water, but it didn’t help. He rolled over and went to sleep.
The next time he awakened, Laurel stood beside the bed. “Hey, sleepyhead! It’s almost 10 a.m.”
“It is?” Exhausted as if he hadn’t slept at all, he forced himself to a seated position. His throat felt raw.
Her eyes narrowed. “Are you all right?”
He felt like he’d been run over and trampled, but a frisson of pleasure raced through him when she pressed her hand to his forehead. “Tired. Throat hurts.”
Then Grav sneezed.
Chapter Fifteen
“Here, take this,” Laurel said.
Grav could barely sit up to take the over-the-counter cold medicine before sinking exhausted onto the pillow. He huddled under three blankets, shivering and shuddering. She had no idea what to do for him other than treat the symptoms and hope she didn’t kill him with the meds. Whatever he had—cold, flu—raged through his system like Progg marching through a defenseless town.
Grav had caught “the plague,” possibly the same virus that had killed the admiral.
Yesterday morning when he’d sneezed, she’d tried not to get too concerned, telling herself and him that a sneeze was just a sneeze, but he’d also complained of a sore throat, so she’d insisted he stay for another day. This morning, he had no appetite, but she tried to keep him hydrated with water, orange juice from a mix, and vegetable broth.
Concerned how the meds would affect his system, she’d treated him homeopathically at first, giving him honey for the sore throat and employing steam from a heated kettle for the nasal congestion.
It hadn’t helped, and he’d worsened so quickly she could no longer fool herself that his condition was minor. By nightfall, she’d resorted to over-the-counter meds, lozenges for the sore throat, a decongestant for the stuffiness. Still wary of a possible adverse reaction to foreign chemicals, she resisted administering an all-in-one cold remedy because if an ingredient was harmful to his biochemistry, she needed to know which one so she could stop it.
By this morning, he’d become lethargic, his fatigue so great he could barely move. His skin had turned ashen. Chills wracked his body. He shivered and shuddered so violently she feared he was having convulsions at first. His condition serious, there was nothing left to lose, so she dosed him with every cold and flu medicine in her pharmaceutical arsenal.
She’d never seen cold symptoms like this. Of course, she’d only been guessing that was what the admiral had, so she had no way to know what Grav suffered from.
But she knew who’d infected him—the man who’d attacked her.
In hindsight, it was clear he’d been sick. She remembered his nasal voice, the sneeze, and the coughing fit that had enabled her to knock the gun from his hand. Then Grav dragged him off her, and later handled the pack and everything the man had touched.
I don’t want to lose you.Please, don’t die. Please, don’t die. Fight, Grav, fight!
She couldn’t stand that he might die because he’d rescued her.
Sitting by his bed, she pressed her hand to his forehead.
“Your hand feels good,” he murmured, not opening his eyes.
She leaned over and touched her lips to his forehead.
“That feels better.” His mouth curved into a slight smile.
“You feel a little…warm,” she said. Burning hot.
“I feel hot and cold.” He shivered.
“I’m going to take your temperature.” She swiped the forehead thermometer against his skin.
A hundred and five point one! That can’t be right.
These forehead thermometers aren’t that accurate.
But they weren’t usuallythatfar off.
