Chapter 117
Evelyn's POV
The fever came in waves, each one dragging me deeper into darkness.
I don't remember how I got from the floor to the bed. One moment I was curled against the couch, still dressed in the tactical gear I'd worn to kill Thomas Reeves. Or rather, to almost kill him before Julian stopped me. The next, I was tangled in sheets that felt suffocating, my skin burning hot.
The apartment spun around me. The ceiling fan's blades sliced through shadows that looked too much like the training room in Vorkuta. I tried to sit up, to reach for the water glass on the nightstand. But my limbs felt like lead. Every muscle ached with exhaustion that went beyond physical fatigue.
This was the kind of tired that came from carrying too much for too long. From finally letting go of the control that had kept me upright through five years of hell.
Julian's scent still clung to the pillow beside me. Leather and smoke and something clean. I buried my face in it without thinking, breathing in the ghost of his presence. Something cracked open in my chest.
You're just someone I've been sleeping with while I figure out my next move.
The words I'd thrown at him echoed in my fever-addled brain. Each syllable a fresh wound. I'd meant them to drive him away. To protect him from the destruction that followed me like a shadow. But lying here alone in the dark, burning up from the inside out, all I could think about was the look on his face when I'd said it.
The way his eyes had gone flat and empty. Like I'd reached inside his chest and ripped something vital out.
My phone buzzed somewhere in the darkness. I ignored it. Too weak to move. Too broken to care. It buzzed again. And again. And again, until the sound burrowed into my skull.
I don't know how long I lay there. Drifting in and out of consciousness while my body tried to burn itself clean. Time lost all meaning in the fever's grip.
Sometimes I was eighteen again, watching my mother's broken body being loaded into a coroner's van. Sometimes I was in Vorkuta, drowning in ice water while Nikolai's instructors screamed that weakness was a disease. And sometimes I was back on that yacht, clinging to Julian in the darkness while the water rose around us.
Feeling for the first time in five years like I might actually survive this life.
The doorbell rang.
I ignored it, pulling the pillow over my head. Whoever it was could go to hell. I had nothing left to give anyone. I just wanted to burn up and disappear. To let the fever consume what was left of Evelyn Valentine until only Wraith remained.
Cold and efficient and blessedly empty.
The doorbell rang again. And again. Persistent. Demanding. Refusing to be ignored.
Julian.
The thought cut through the fog like a knife. He'd come back. He'd realized I was sick and he'd come back to save me. Again.
I forced myself upright. My vision swimming as the room tilted sideways. The tactical gear was still on, the fabric sticking to my fevered skin. I stumbled toward the door, catching myself against the wall when my legs threatened to give out.
My heart hammered against my ribs with something that felt dangerously close to hope.
Please let it be him. Please let him be stubborn enough to come back even after I—
I yanked the door open. The words already forming on my lips. I'm sorry. I didn't mean it. Please don't leave me alone in this.
But it wasn't Julian standing in the hallway.
It was Isabella.
She looked perfect, as always. Cream-colored cashmere sweater. Designer jeans. Honey-blonde hair falling in soft waves. The picture of American sweetness. Everything I could never be. In her hands, she held a small gift basket wrapped in cellophane.
"Evelyn!" Her smile was bright and genuine. "I hope I'm not disturbing you. I just wanted to—" She stopped mid-sentence. Her expression shifting from cheerful to concerned. "Oh my God, are you okay? You look terrible."
I wanted to laugh. Or cry. Or slam the door in her face and crawl back into bed to finish dying in peace. Instead, I found myself stepping back automatically. Muscle memory from years of playing the gracious hostess.
"I'm fine," I said. My voice rough and cracked. "Just a cold. You really shouldn't—"
But Isabella was already inside. Setting the basket down and shrugging out of her coat like she belonged here.
"You're burning up," she said, pressing the back of her hand to my forehead. "When did this start? Have you taken anything? Do you need me to call someone?"
The questions came rapid-fire. Each one bouncing off the walls of my skull without finding purchase. I tried to focus on her face, on the genuine concern in her blue eyes. But all I could see was Julian's expression when I'd told him he meant nothing.
All I could feel was the phantom weight of his hands on my shoulders. Gripping hard enough to leave bruises. Trying to hold me together when I was determined to shatter.
"I don't need anything," I managed. "I just need to sleep. You should go."
But Isabella didn't go. She guided me toward the couch with surprising strength.
Settling me among the cushions that still held the impression of where Julian and I had—
I pushed the memory away before it could finish forming.
"Let me at least get you some water," Isabella was saying. Already moving toward the kitchen like she'd mapped out my apartment in her head. "And maybe some ibuprofen? You really shouldn't let a fever get this high without—"
I stopped listening. The words became background noise. White static that filled the spaces between my heartbeats. I watched her move through my kitchen. Opening cabinets and finding glasses with ease. She was talking the whole time. A steady stream of cheerful concern that should have been comforting but only made the emptiness inside me feel deeper.
She came back with water and pills. Pressing both into my hands with a reassuring smile. I took them mechanically. Swallowing without tasting. And let her fuss over me because it was easier than fighting.
Easier than explaining that the fever wasn't the problem. That the real sickness was buried so deep that no amount of medicine could touch it.