Chapter 131 Princess Zander with a Fever in a Bridal Carry
Amelia caught him before he hit the floor, her arms instinctively tightening around his weight.
"Zander?" Her voice was steady, but her breath came in deep, controlled pulls.
His forehead was burning against her shoulder, heat radiating like a warning. He had heard the knock earlier, tried to call out, but his throat refused to cooperate. Dragging himself from bed had taken everything he had; opening the door had tipped him over the edge.
Why was she here, at this hour? They weren't close—not really. He had always kept a polite distance. And yet here he was, leaning into her without a choice, his body too heavy to hold upright.
His thoughts were a haze, his limbs leaden. All he could do was let his full weight rest against her, his breathing rough and uneven. Somewhere in the fog, he registered that she wasn't panicking. If anything, she was assessing him.
One hand braced his back. The other lifted to his forehead. She paused for a fraction of a second, then spoke with a calm authority that cut through his feeble attempt to move away.
"Don't."
He wasn't light, not for someone her size. Any ordinary slender girl would have buckled under him. But Amelia wasn't ordinary, and she wasn't fragile.
She inhaled once, bent her knees, and in one smooth motion lifted him completely off the ground.
For a heartbeat, Zander thought the fever had scrambled his senses. But no—the reality was exactly what it felt like. This small, self-possessed girl had scooped him up with ease, carrying him across the room and setting him down on the bed as if it were nothing.
"You…" His eyes cracked open, his voice a rasp.
"You're burning up, and you didn't say a word." Her tone was even, but there was a steel edge to it, the kind that came from concern wearing the mask of irritation.
It left him momentarily disoriented. He blinked at her, the fever blurring the lines of her expression.
She pressed her lips together, turned toward the door. "I'm getting Kevin."
Her movement was cut short by his hand closing around her wrist.
"Don't." He had to pause to breathe before he could continue. "Don't let Kevin—or anyone—know I'm sick."
"There's a first-aid kit in my desk drawer. It has fever meds. Just… get them for me. I'll be fine."
She turned back to him, brows knitting. "Why not tell Kevin?"
Sweat rolled down his temple. His vision wavered. Whatever filter usually guarded his words was gone.
"If Kevin knows, he'll worry. He'll think the fever might trigger my asthma. He'll call a doctor in the middle of the night… or take me straight to the hospital."
"He'll think I got sick because I'm not adjusting to school. He'll bring back tutors, keep me away from crowds—like when we were kids."
"I… don't want that."
The effort of speaking left his brow furrowed, his face drained of color.
Her pause was long enough for him to notice, even through the fever.
"I understand," she said finally.
He thought—maybe imagined—that her tone had softened. The faint tension in her movements eased.
"I'll get the kit. Stay in bed. Don't move."
He let go of her wrist, sinking back into the pillows. His chest rose and fell heavily. His eyes slid shut. Damp strands of hair clung to his forehead.
He heard her searching—drawers opening, the faint clink of bottles. The sound of water pouring into a cup.
Then she was back, helping him upright, guiding his head to rest against her shoulder. Pills pressed to his lips. He swallowed without thinking. Water followed, cool and clean, easing the rawness in his throat.
She didn't lay him down immediately. Instead, she kept him leaning against her, hand moving in slow, rhythmic pats along his back. The discomfort he usually felt after taking medicine faded.
How did she know? He hadn't told her.
The heat in his body was relentless. His skin burned, yet her bare arms and legs were cool against him. He found himself leaning closer, chasing that relief.
She noticed. Her hand turned, the back of it resting against his cheek. The chill seeped into his skin, and he breathed out in something close to relief.
It was an odd picture—Zander, tall and usually composed, curled into someone smaller, eyes half-closed, responding only to instinct. Amelia, calm and unhurried, as if this were routine.
But if you looked closely, there was a flicker in her eyes. Not just composure—something gentler.
It was her first time in his room. Her brothers' rooms were all distinct: Kevin's sleek and minimal, Chris's spotless to the point of sterility, Ryan's casual chaos, Tobias's brash collection of model mechs.
Zander's had no theme. It was simply… full of books. Shelves, desk, nightstand—every surface stacked. Some were worn at the edges, the faded covers of children's tales meant for four-year-olds, relics from over a decade ago.
Opening his desk drawer revealed a large medical kit, crammed with pills in every color. The sight carried its own weight.
It wasn't hard to imagine the story. A boy too frail to run with the others, spending his childhood alone in this room, reading while the world outside played on fields and in parks. And maybe not just childhood—maybe even now.
Every sharp corner in the room was padded with foam. Safety measures for someone whose skin couldn't risk a cut.
When she looked down again, he was asleep. His breathing was still uneven, but his face was less tense. She laid her palm against his forehead.
Warmth met something deeper—her own quiet, steady strength flowing into him. Slowly, the lines of pain eased.
When he seemed settled, she lowered him back, pulling the blanket over him with deliberate care.
In her last life, ten years as Rosie had been wrapped in solitude. This one was surrounded by family warmth. Protecting them… maybe that was the point of coming back.