Chapter 6 - The Fever Breaking
On our third day at the cabin, the adrenaline crash caught up to Marcus. The wound on his leg—a grazing bullet he had dismissed as a scratch—became infected.
By nightfall, he was burning with a 104-degree fever, delirious and thrashing on the bed.
"No doctors," his lead guard, a scarred man named Tommy, told me grimly. "If we bring a doc in, the Morettis will track them. You're a nurse, Clara. Fix him."
I tore open the compound's emergency medical kit. I cleaned the wound, stitched the torn flesh, and pumped him full of broad-spectrum antibiotics. For forty-eight hours, I didn't sleep. I bathed his chest with cool water, holding his hand as he fought the infection.
In his delirium, he muttered dark things. Orders to kill. Regrets. But he also muttered my name. Over and over.
On the third morning, his fever broke. His dark eyes fluttered open, finding me slumped in the chair beside his bed, holding his hand.
"You saved my life," he rasped.
May you like
"We're even," I smiled weakly.
He pulled my hand to his lips, kissing the center of my palm. "Not even close, Clara. Not even close."
