chapter 73
Sebastian's POV:
The warmth of her slight frame colliding with my chest sent a jolt through my system.
My arms moved on instinct, steadying her before she could stumble back, and the familiar scent of her hair filled my senses like a drug I'd been deprived of for too long.
"What's wrong?" The words came out rougher than intended, my voice carrying a hoarseness that could have been from the fever—or from something else entirely as I held her trembling form against me.
I felt the exact moment her panic transformed into relief.
Her entire body sagged against mine, the rigid tension melting away as her eyes swept over me—taking in my standing position, my coherent speech, the color that had returned to my face.
"Worried about me?" I asked softly, unable to keep the pleased note from my voice.
"No." The denial came too quickly, too sharp, and she straightened in my arms with that familiar defensive bristle. "I was just... I got thirsty. I came down for water."
The lie was so transparent it was almost endearing.
Her cheeks flushed pink as she avoided my gaze.
"Thirsty," I repeated, savoring the word, letting her hear my complete lack of belief. "Of course."
"What were you doing anyway?" she deflected, clearly desperate to change the subject. "You should be in bed."
I considered my answer for a moment and replied. "Cooking."
Her eyes widened in genuine shock, darting between my face and the kitchen behind me as if I'd just claimed to have been performing brain surgery. "Cooking? You?"
The disbelief in her voice might have been insulting if it weren't so utterly genuine.
---
Earlier, I'd woken to an empty bed and silence so complete.
My hand had swept across the cold sheets where she should have been, finding only the dampness of my own sweat, and for one terrible moment, I'd wondered if I'd dreamed it all: her staying, her choosing not to leave with Margaret, even that text asking me to pick her up from the reunion.
The disappointment had been crushing until I'd forced myself upright, ignoring the way the room tilted slightly, and noticed both bedroom doors standing open.
There she was, curled on the guest bed in a position that couldn't have been comfortable, her face turned toward my room even in sleep.
The sketchpad had slipped from her fingers, pencil rolling across the floor, and the evidence of her vigil—the way she'd positioned herself to maintain a clear sightline to my bed—had made something hot and gentle through my chest.
She'd been watching over me.
My gaze fell on the thermometer resting on the nightstand, and I reached for it, sliding it under my tongue with practiced efficiency.
When the reading came back normal, relief flooded through me—not because the fever had broken, but because it meant I wouldn't have to spend another night separated from Elena.
I'd immediately called for Marcus, instructing him to have the housekeeping staff deep clean and sanitize everything while I showered. I couldn't let Elena catch whatever I'd had—the thought of her suffering even a moment of discomfort because of me was unbearable.
When I'd emerged from the bathroom, hair still damp and wearing fresh clothes, she'd still been asleep.
Marcus had volunteered information I hadn't asked for but desperately wanted to hear: "Mrs. Vane kept checking on you throughout the afternoon, sir. Even when Lady Margaret instructed her to rest, she couldn't seem to stay away for more than a few minutes."
The knowledge had made me restless with a peculiar kind of hunger—not sexual, though that was always simmering beneath the surface with her, but something deeper.
Dr. Campbell's voice echoed in my memory, listing dietary requirements for pregnant women, emphasizing the importance of proper nutrition. My wife needed to eat, needed to be cared for, and maybe I can do something.
Marcus had protested when I'd headed for the kitchen, suggesting I should rest, but I'd silenced him with a look. "Either help me or go to spar with me," I'd said, knowing the threat would keep him in line.
The next few hours had been an exercise in patience I didn't naturally possess.
YouTube tutorials and cooking apps became my reluctant teachers as I fumbled through creating something that would meet both Elena's finicky palate and her nutritional needs.
The kitchen, usually the domain of our absent chef, became a battlefield of measuring cups and ingredient lists. More than once, I'd had to start over, my perfectionist tendencies refusing to let me serve her anything less than ideal.
I'd just plated the final dish—a carefully balanced meal with the proteins and vitamins Dr. Campbell had specified—when I heard movement from upstairs.
My pulse had quickened with anticipation as I'd moved toward the stairs, and then she'd barreled into me like a small, panicked hurricane.
---
"Care to try some?" I asked, gesturing toward the kitchen. "Unless you're not actually thirsty anymore."
She followed me with obvious skepticism, her bare feet padding softly against the floor. I could feel her doubt radiating from every step, right up until she stopped short at the sight of the dinner table.
The spread I'd prepared did look rather impressive, if I said so myself—perfectly plated dishes arranged with the kind of precision usually reserved for high-end restaurants.
Her lips parted slightly as she took it all in, and I savored that rare moment of having genuinely surprised her.
"You made all of this?" She moved closer to the table, examining each dish with the careful attention she usually reserved for her sketches. "Really?"
I nodded, unable to suppress the surge of pride at her obvious amazement. For someone who commanded boardrooms and controlled millions, the simple act of feeding my pregnant wife properly felt like a greater accomplishment than any business deal I'd ever closed.
She sat slowly, still eyeing the food like it might be poisoned.
"Just try it," I said, pushing the plate closer.