Chapter 47 Fever and Fire
Damian's POV
Three days.
That's how long I'd been locked up in my apartment, half-dead from a fever I couldn't shake. The kind that made your head feel too heavy for your body.
I'd ignored Rachael's calls at first - I wasn't in the mood for pity or fussing. But she was persistent. Sweetly, annoyingly persistent.
I should've known she wouldn't listen.
Rachael Meyer never did.
When she set her mind on something - a project, a deadline, me - she followed through. That's how I found myself half-asleep on the couch, fever burning through my skull, listening to the soft click of my door.
"Mr. Cross?"
Her voice floated through the haze - soft, warm, dangerously gentle.
I groaned, pulling the blanket tighter. "You shouldn't be here."
"Then you shouldn't be dying alone," she said simply, closing the door behind her.
I opened my eyes. She stood there with a plastic bag in one hand and a thermos in the other, dressed down in jeans and a cream sweater. Hair tied up, eyes soft but determined.
Beautiful in that quiet, grounded way that made it impossible to look away.
"You look worse than I imagined," she said, walking in like she owned the place.
I huffed out a weak laugh. "You imagined me sick?"
"I imagined you human," she teased, setting her things on the coffee table. "Guess I was right."
She knelt beside me, unpacking a bowl, a spoon, and a small container of soup. Steam drifted up - rich, peppery, real.
"What is that?"
"Something that'll make you feel less like death."
I tried to sit up, failed. "I can manage."
"Sure you can." Her tone was dry as she dipped the spoon, blew on it, and lifted it to my mouth. "Open up."
I blinked. "You're serious?"
She smiled faintly. "You're too weak to argue properly. Don't embarrass yourself."
Her voice - low, amused - slipped under my skin. Against better judgment, I opened my mouth.
The first taste was fire and warmth - ginger, pepper, something that hit deep in my chest.
"Good?" she asked softly.
"Better than I deserve," I muttered.
She laughed - quietly, the sound vibrating through the silence between us. "You always talk like that?"
"Like what?"
"Like the world owes you pain."
I looked at her. "You been reading my file?"
Her eyes softened. "You forget I've been working with you for weeks. I see more than you think."
She lifted another spoonful. This time, I caught her wrist before she could feed me.
"Rachael."
She froze. "What?"
"Why are you doing this?"
Her lips parted, then curved into the smallest, most dangerous smile. "Because someone has to. And because..." - her gaze flicked to my mouth, then back to my eyes - "I like taking care of people who pretend they don't need it."
My pulse jumped. The air between us thickened, slow and charged.
She didn't pull away. Neither did I.
Her hand was warm in mine, her skin soft against my rough, feverish grip. I could feel her heartbeat - fast, unsteady - matching mine.
Then she gently pulled free and said, almost teasing, "Now, if you're done being dramatic, let me do my job."
I let her feed me again. Slowly. Spoon by spoon.
Her movements were careful - not just kind, but intimate. The way she leaned closer, brushing my shoulder when she set the bowl down. The way her laugh caught when I teased her about bossing me around.
At one point, the spoon slipped. A drop of soup landed on her wrist. Without thinking, I reached out, thumb brushing it away.
She froze.
Neither of us moved.
Her breath caught; her eyes found mine. For a second, I could swear the room shrank - until there was only her and the sound of our breathing.
"You're supposed to be resting," she whispered.
"I'm trying," I murmured. "You're not making it easy."
Her cheeks flushed, but she didn't look away. "Maybe I don't want to."
The words hit me harder than the fever.
I could've said something reckless. I almost did. But before I could, a knock shattered the silence.
Three quick taps.
Rachael straightened instantly. I frowned.
"Expecting someone?" she whispered.
"No," I said. My voice came out rough.
Another knock.
Rachael set the bowl down and rose, wiping her hands on a napkin. "I'll get it."
Before I could protest, she crossed the room and opened the door.
The air shifted.
Elena stood there - flawless as ever, her hair pulled back, eyes sharp but soft around the edges. She was holding a small container in her hands.
"Damian," she said, her voice careful. "I heard you were sick. I made you-"
She stopped. Her eyes flicked to Rachael, who stood in the doorway like a quiet storm - casual, comfortable, very much at home.
Rachael blinked once, polite. "Ms. Grant," she greeted with a smile that was sweet, but not submissive. "You're here."
"I can see that," Elena said tightly, her eyes darting past her to me on the couch. "I didn't realize you had company."
"She insisted on coming," I said, sitting up slowly. "Against my better judgment."
Rachael's smile didn't falter. "He wasn't going to eat if I didn't bring something."
Elena's gaze dropped to the table - the half-empty bowl, the spoon resting in the soup, steam still rising. Something flickered in her eyes.
"I see," she said softly.
Rachael stepped aside. "Would you like to come in?"
Elena hesitated - just a second too long. "No, thank you. I just wanted to make sure he was okay."
Rachael looked between us, reading the unspoken tension perfectly. "He's fine now," she said lightly. "The soup helped."
That earned her a glance from Elena - quick, sharp, but calculated.
"Well," Elena said, lifting her chin. "I'll let you rest, Damian."
Her tone was clipped, her smile paper-thin.
Before I could respond, she turned and walked away - heels clicking
against the floor, pride wrapped around every step.
"I should let you sleep. You'll need strength tomorrow." said Rachael
"Stay," I said before I could stop myself.
She froze again. "Damian..."
"It's just-" I swallowed hard. "Don't go yet."
Her shoulders softened. For a moment, I thought she might.
Then she smiled - small, shy, trembling at the edges. "I'll come by in the morning. With more soup."
And then she was gone.
The door clicked shut, leaving me with the taste of her laughter and the ghost of her touch.
I leaned back, staring at the ceiling.
I'd promised myself I wouldn't get attached again.
Not after Elena.
Not after everything.
But Rachael Meyer was undoing that promise, spoon by spoon.
Elena's POV
I shouldn't have gone there.
I knew it the second I saw Rachael open that door.
He was sick - that's all I wanted to check. Or at least, that's what I told myself. But the truth? I wanted to see him. To remind myself that I still could.
But seeing her there - in his home, in that space - hurt more than I expected.
It wasn't jealousy, not exactly. It was realization.
Damian Cross was moving on.
And for the first time since I'd met him, I wasn't sure I wanted him to.
This doesn't feel right, I'm still with Lucas.