Chapter 157 My Angel | 050
NOELLE
"Let me try," I utter softly, my heart pounding.
The blond looks up at me. He searches my face for a moment, then he nods slowly.
"He needs to keep it down for at least ten minutes," he says. "If he vomits—"
"I know." I swallow hard. "Can I have a moment alone with him? Please."
Jake glances at Danika. They communicate discreetly. That mere action makes me even more nervous. But I have to push past the lump in my throat and the tightness in my chest. My mate needs me.
Danika is the first to rise. She cups my face in both hands, pressing her forehead to mine for just a second. It's so maternal and unexpected that my throat constricts completely. Then she pulls back, kisses my temple, and ushers the others out without a word.
The door slides shut behind them. Now, it's just us.
I exhale shakily and look down at him. He's so unlike himself.
I glance at the bowl on the low table beside the couch. The medicine is a pale yellow liquid. I reach for the spoon, then I stop, remembering the way Val said Azren can't keep it down.
My eyes drop to my own hand.
I know that this is risky. But if my blood is the only thing that can truly soothe his pain, why should I hold back? It's not like he's suddenly going to attack me and drain me dry, r-right?
I reach for the small knife on the medical tray before I can talk myself out of it. My hand shakes badly. I press the blade to the soft meat of my palm, just enough for it to bleed immediately.
I hold my hand over the bowl and let a few drops fall into the medicine, changing its color.
My heart is hammering so hard I can feel it in my teeth.
'Please work. Please.'
I yank at the hem of my shirt and wrap a strip of cloth loosely around my palm. Then I settle onto the edge of the couch. Getting him upright takes careful maneuvering, considering our size difference.
I wedge myself behind him, his head cradled against my chest.
He stirs faintly at being moved, letting out a pained sound.
"Shh," I breathe against his hair. "I've got you, Az."
His head lolls back against my collarbone, and his lashes twitch, but his eyes don’t open. I reach around him for the spoon, fill it, and bring it to his lips.
"Come on," I whisper. "Open up for me."
His mouth parts on reflex. I tip the spoon carefully, watching his throat work in a slow swallow. I hold my breath. Then I do it again.
And again.
Between each spoonful I press my lips to his temple. To the edge of his jaw. To the damp skin behind his ear, careful of where he's hurting.
"You scared me today," I whisper against his hair between spoonfuls. "You absolute idiot. You beautiful, insufferable idiot."
I feed him another spoonful. His swallow is slightly stronger this time.
"Ten minutes," I remind myself under my breath.
I keep going. And because the silence feels unbearable, I start talking. My lips find the shell of his ear, and I lower my voice as I speak.
"When you wake up," I breathe, "I'm going to make you pay for scaring me like this."
His breathing changes a little, as though he's curious to hear what I have to say.
"I've been thinking about it. All the things I haven't let myself say out loud." I feed him again. "The way you look at me when you think I'm not watching. Like I'm something you're still not sure you're allowed to have." I press my mouth to his jaw. "You're allowed, Az. You have no idea how much you're allowed."
His fingers twitch against the blanket.
"When you're better," I whisper, my lips brushing his temple with every word, "I want you to take your time with me. The way I know you want to. I've seen it. The restraint you practice as if it's your religion." I let out a tearful laugh. "I want you to stop practicing."
It's been seven minutes now. Maybe.
"I want your hands on me. Both of them. I want you to stop being so careful." My voice cracks slightly, and I stop, pressing my lips hard to his hair until I can breathe again. "I want to hear the sounds you make when you're not holding yourself back."
His chest rises and falls a little steadier.
"I've imagined it," I admit. "More times than I'll ever admit to your face. So you need to wake up. You need to, because I have an entire list, Azren, and I am not whispering it to an unconscious man forever."
His fingers move again. This time they find the fabric of my sleeve and curl into it weakly, holding on.
My eyes flood with tears. I press my lips to his cheekbone and hold them there.
"That's it," I breathe. "That's it. Come back to me."
The spoon scrapes the bottom of the bowl. I count the seconds in the careful rise and fall of his chest against my arms.
Ten minutes.
'Please,' I plead mentally.
He doesn't vomit.
I wrap both arms around him and hold on, my face buried in his hair, my tears soaking into it.
"There," I whisper, my voice absolutely wrecked. "There. Okay. Okay."
His grip on my sleeve tightens. Just slightly.
And I hold him, refusing to let go.
...
His breathing evens out somewhere around the half-hour mark. He's peaceful now.
I stay perfectly still for a long time after, afraid to jinx it. My back aches from the position. My hand throbs under its makeshift bandage. I don't move.
Only when I'm completely certain do I allow myself to ease out from behind him, lowering his head to the cushion, and tucking the blanket back up around his shoulder. I watch his face the whole time for any trace of disturbance.
But my husband just sleeps on.
So, I lean down. My lips find his gently. Then I straighten up.
"Be right back," I mutter.
I pick up everything, prepared to hide all incriminating evidence.
The hallway feels very long. I'm halfway down it, mentally calculating how quickly I can sort things out, when a figure detaches from the shadows near the wall.
I nearly drop everything.
It's Cameron. He simply stands there with his arms loosely crossed, his expression unreadable. His eyes drop to the bowl in my hands. Then to the cloth wrapped around my palm.
He inhales deeply. Then he closes his eyes.
"I smell blood," he utters.
I open my mouth, running through approximately four versions of a lie in the span of two seconds. 'I cut myself on the tray. It was already in the medicine. I don't know what you're smelling.'
Cameron's gaze meets mine. He says nothing. He just looks at me with those calm, steady eyes, and somehow that's worse than any accusation.
I close my mouth.
He uncrosses his arms and glances towards the room I just came from. Then, in a low voice that carries no judgment whatsoever, he says,
"Rinse the bowl and knife three times with hot water. The spoon too." He nods toward the cloth on my hand. "That bandage needs to go in the outside bin, not the kitchen one. He'll smell it the moment he's lucid."
I stare at him.
He stares back, perfectly neutral, waiting for me to start moving.
"Cameron—"
"I'll handle the tray. And I'll speak to Val." His jaw tightens slightly. "I'll make sure the room smells clean before he wakes up. It'll take a few hours, but we have time."
"He's going to be furious if he finds out," I whisper.
"Yes," he agrees. "So let's make sure he doesn't." He tilts his head towards the kitchen. "Go. Hot water. Three times."
I nod, turning towards the kitchen on unsteady legs.
"Luna."
I stop. His voice has changed slightly. I turn to look at him over my shoulder.
Cameron's head is slightly bowed.
"Thank you," he says. "For being so brave."
My throat tightens. I don't know what to do with the gratitude in his voice and the respect in the way he says it. It feels too big for me.
So I give him the only thing I can manage. A small nod.
"...He would've done the same for me," I say softly.
I turn quickly before my eyes can betray how overwhelmed I feel.
The kitchen lights are dim when I step inside.
I move quickly. I drop everything in the sink. I turn the faucet on full heat until steam curls up from the metal basin. My fingers tremble as I rinse everything just like Cameron said.
I exhale slowly, my shoulders sagging with relief. My palm throbs as I unwrap the makeshift bandage. The cut isn't deep, but it's angry and red.
I rinse it under the water and hiss softly.
"Serves you right," I mutter to myself.
After everything is rinsed and clean, I dispose of the cloth in the outside bin like Cameron instructed. When I return inside, the quiet house suddenly feels enormous.
What if he woke up?
What if he—
No.
I need to clean myself up first.
I slip quickly into the guest bathroom, locking the door behind me.
The shower only takes a few minutes. I wash the faint smell of blood from my skin and hair as quickly as possible, scrubbing harder than necessary until the water runs clear down the drain.
By the time I step out, my heart has started racing again.
I should go check on him.
But the moment I step back into the hallway, something catches my eye. A small pile of blood-stained cloths sits beside the washing machine in the laundry alcove.
My stomach drops.
If he smells them when he wakes up—
He'll know.
I hurry over, clutching the towel tighter around myself.
"Okay... okay..." I whisper.
The washing machine looks unnecessarily complicated.
Why are there so many buttons?
I jab one, and nothing happens.
Maybe I should just burn the clothes.
"Come on," I mutter under my breath, pushing at the dial harder. "Just wash the stupid—"
A rough, sleepy voice suddenly speaks behind me.
"What... are you doing?"
My entire soul leaves my body.