Now I’m just frustrated, and I set his hand back on his abs to stand up and step out into the hall. “Mrs. Maisely?” I call into the cavernous center of the palace.
“Your Grace?”
“Can you call the doctor? Tell him the Duke’s fever is over 40 degrees.”
“Oh dear,” she says more under her breath, then speaks louder. “Yes, Madam, of course.”
I return to the room and step into the en suite to dampen a cloth, then carry it back to the bed, where I wipe his face and then drape it across his forehead.
“Islaaaa…”he groans again, flinching. “That’s really fucking cold.”
“It’s cold because your fever isreallyhigh.” I sit back down next to him. “Mrs. Maisely is calling the doctor. You’re very sick.”
“Don’t need a doctor,” he mumbles, eyes still closed while he shifts and nestles deeper against the pillow, turning his face more toward me. “You worry too much.”
“You have no concept of the state of my worry because we don’t discuss things like that,” I say off-handedly, picking up the pill bottle to check the dosage on the label so I can determine if I should make him take more. “Did you take any of this medicine?”
He gives a shallow huff. “We don’t discuss things ‘cuz you’re not here.”
“It says every four—” I start to say, but then stop as his statement registers. I set the bottle down and look at him again. “I’m here right now, Malachi. I know you hate me. You have every right to, but we’re just going to set that aside for a—”
“I don’t.”
The two-word denial causes a strange, arrhythmic thump of my heart; almost like I had a small, quick surge of anxiety. I raise my eyebrows and prompt him, “You don’t.”
Malachi draws in another series of long breaths. “No, Isla.”
Now I’m just intrigued. “No? You could’ve fooled me. I don’t blame you eith—”
“You broke my heart,” he murmurs slowly, then moistens his lips, eyes still closed. “But if I hated you, I’d be indifferent to you.” He hums quietly for a second. “Anger… is broken love.”
I squint at his borderline nonsensical philosophizing. “I suppose.”
I reach to clutch the cloth on his forehead, wipe his face again, and then refold it and drape it back across his skin. And since he’s apparently rendered to a candid, docile state as a result of fever, I’m overcome with temptation to hash through all of it further.
“I hope you understand that I don’t have any memory of what I did to you. I can’t trust my own mind. I don’t know what caused me to do that to you, but given what Papá told you, I hope it’s clear that there was obviously a lot wrong with me. I don’t know what happened that caused me to do all the things I did. Least of all what I did to you. And I’m sorry for all of it, but I’m more sorry for that than anything else. It’s not what I wanted.”
“You wanted,” he picks back up, still speaking through slow, low words, “freedom to live. You wanted to be let go. So, I let you go.”
I squint harder as I just can’t even make sense of such a thing. “I said that to you?”
“A text message… but yes.” He swallows. “You sent a string of text messages. You turned off your phone. You disappeared. Before that, you said you wanted to be let go so you could live. So, I let you go.”
My pulse is now pounding in my ears. “And you justlet me goover a string oftext messages? You didn’t eventryto—”
“I did try. I called. For weeks.” Malachi draws in another deep breath. “You were very clear about what you wanted, but I did try. You couldn’t have been more clear. This was what you wanted. So, I let you go, and I left. I loved you enough to let you go.”
I have to clasp my hands together in my lap as they’re now shaking with adrenaline. “And yet, you don’t hate me.” A huff of disbelief bursts from my throat. “I don’t believe that, but I hate myself enough for both of us, so I suppose it’s inconsequential.”
He blindly lifts his hand and it lands on the thick mass of my hair draping over the side of my arm. His fingers weakly clutch at the strands, index finger twirling around them. “I loved you… more than anything… you were perfect… perfection is a lie.”
I swallow the lump in my throat. “I suppose that’s accurate.” Sniffling back the urge to cry, I wrap my hand around his. “The doctor is on his way, but I’m going to draw you a bath. I think you would feel better if you let yourself soak for a bit.”
He hums again. “I would assume you’d wish this sickness would kill me.”
I arch one eyebrow at him despite his eyes remaining closed. “Why would I wish that upon you?” Rage and frustration at my behavior that I can’t even remember strums below my sternum. “You did nothing wrong. You reached out to my father when you heard about a threat on my life. You married me to protect me from it. Your treatment of me is my penance, and I’m indebted to you. You can expect continued compliance from me for the remainder of this marriage. My own behavior stole every choice and option I ever had. I’m at your complete and total mercy, and you have my word that I’ll do whatever I have to to make this arrangement as painless for you as possible.” I set his hand on his chest and stand up. “However, right now, I think you should try to cooperate with me, because a bath would honestly help you feel better.”
“Mmmm…”He nestles his face sideways against the pillow and says nothing else.
