chapter 70
Elena's POV:
I could see the war playing out behind his eyes—desire battling with something else, something that made his jaw clench, and his breathing turn deliberately measured.
My own breath came shallow, caught somewhere between anticipation and the peculiar relief that comes with recognizing restraint in someone who rarely showed any.
"Sebastian?" I whispered, reaching up to touch his face. His skin burned beneath my fingertips, feverish with more than just desire.
He closed his eyes at my touch, leaning into it for just a moment before pulling back entirely. The loss of his warmth above me was immediate and startling, like stepping from sunshine into shadow.
"Damn it," he muttered, running a hand through his hair as he sat back on his heels.
The muscle in his jaw jumped as he glanced down at my stomach, then back to my face.
I understood. The baby had become both the tie that bound us and the barrier that protected me, sometimes in the same moment. I pulled myself up to sitting, adjusting my nightgown with hands that weren't quite steady.
Before I could respond, he was on his feet, striding toward the bathroom with the kind of purposeful movement that suggested he was fleeing as much as walking.
The door closed with more force than necessary, and moments later, I heard the shower turn on.
In December. In London. Where the pipes practically groaned with cold.
The mighty Sebastian Vane, reduced to cold showers like some teenager. There was something almost endearingly human about it.
When he emerged fifteen minutes later, his hair was damp, and his silk pajama pants clung to him in ways that suggested the shower hadn't been entirely successful in its purpose.
He caught me trying to hide my smile, and his eyes narrowed.
"Something amusing, Mrs. Vane?"
The title on his lips still sent an odd shiver through me—part recognition, part warning. I schooled my expression into innocence. "Not at all."
He prowled back to the bed, movements fluid despite the tension I could still see coiled in his shoulders.
When he slid under the covers, he pulled me against him with perhaps more force than necessary, then bent his head to nip at the sensitive spot where my neck met my shoulder.
"Ow!" I squeaked, more surprised than hurt.
"That's for laughing at my suffering," he murmured against my skin, but his arms had gentled around me, one hand coming to rest protectively over my stomach as we settled into sleep.
---
I woke to the sensation of being wrapped in a furnace.
December in London meant our bedroom was always cool despite the heating, but this morning I felt like I was pressed against a radiator.
Sebastian's body, usually just pleasantly warm, seemed to be giving off waves of heat that had me shifting uncomfortably even before I was fully conscious.
More unusual still was the fact that he hadn't moved.
Sebastian was invariably awake before me, either already gone to the office or waiting downstairs for us to have breakfast together. At the very least, he'd be propped on one elbow watching me sleep with that unnerving intensity of his.
But today his breathing remained deep and even against my neck, his arm a heavy weight across my waist. It was rare for him to still have his eyes closed at this hour.
I turned carefully in his embrace, studying his face in the pale morning light filtering through the curtains.
His features, usually sharp with control or calculation, had softened in sleep. But there was something else—a flush across his cheekbones that had nothing to do with desire or exertion.
Tentatively, I pressed my palm to his forehead. The heat that met my touch was alarming, far beyond normal body temperature. I moved my hand to his chest, feeling the same burning warmth through the thin material of his shirt.
"Sebastian?" I tried to ease away from him, but his arm tightened automatically around me, a soft sound of protest escaping his lips. "Sebastian, wake up."
No response. His breathing remained steady but seemed slightly labored now that I was paying attention.
Worry began to creep up my spine. In all our time together, I'd never seen him ill. He'd always seemed almost inhumanly resistant to the weaknesses that plagued normal people.
I managed to extricate myself from his embrace, though he made another unconscious sound of displeasure at the loss.
Moving quietly, I padded to the bathroom and filled a glass with cool water, setting it on his nightstand within easy reach. His skin felt unnaturally warm when I brushed the back of my hand against his forehead.
My phone was on the dresser. I grabbed it and dialed Marcus's number.
"Mrs. Vane?" His voice was alert despite the early hour. "Is everything alright?"
"Sebastian's running a fever," I said without preamble. "Can you arrange for Dr. David Campbell to come by?"
"I'll have him there within the hour." Marcus's tone shifted to one of professional concern. "Should I cancel his morning meetings?"
I glanced back at Sebastian. "Yes. Clear his schedule for today at least."
In the growing morning light, I could see the sheen of perspiration on his forehead. I fetched a cool washcloth from the bathroom and perched on the edge of the bed, gently wiping his face.
His eyes fluttered open at the touch, dark and unfocused. "Elena?"
"I'm here," I said softly. "You have a fever. The doctor's coming."
He didn't seem to register my words, his gaze sliding past me without recognition. But when I tried to pull away to rinse the washcloth, his hand shot out with surprising strength, fingers closing around mine in an almost desperate grip.
He tugged weakly, drawing me closer until I was forced to sit beside him again.
His eyes had already drifted shut, but his hold on my hand remained firm, as if some primitive part of his brain refused to let me go even in this fevered state.