Beauty for the Beast Chapter 08

Beauty for the Beast Chapter 08

The elevator was silent. I could feel him watching me – the weight of his stare, all the questions

behind it – but I kept my eyes locked on the floor numbers.

The fever hit that night. My head was splitting, every muscle burned, and the room wouldn’t stop

spinning.

His call bell rang at midnight.

I dragged myself up, pulled on dry clothes, and stumbled to his suite.

I pushed the door open. His silhouette sat framed against the window, city lights blurred through

the rain-streaked glass.

“Boss, your water…”

My legs gave out. I hit the carpet hard.

His wheelchair jerked around. “Elena – Elena, what’s wrong?” His voice cracked with panic.

I tried to push myself up. My arms wouldn’t hold.

–

Strong arms hooked under my shoulders and hauled me up. “You’re burning up.” He half-carried, hálf-dragged me toward the sofa, shouting over his shoulder – “Get a doctor! Now!” — his voice raw with panic.

Then my feet were off the ground entirely, pulled tight against the bodyguard’s chest as he rushed

me to the bed.

Julian’s wheelchair bumped hard against the mattress as he leaned over me. Even through the fever, I knew that smell – bergamot and tobacco. Julian. The scent I’d spent three years trying to

forget.

I closed my eyes and let the darkness swallow me.

I woke to sunlight and the soft, steady drip of an IV.

I was in my own bed, with an IV taped to the back of my hand, a glass of water on the nightstand.

The door opened. Julian wheeled himself in, a small tray balanced on his lap.

A bowl of chicken noodle soup steamed on the tray, a sleeve of saltines beside it.

“You’re up.” His voice was neutral. He set the tray on the bedside table. “Eat.”

I stared at the bowl. “Chicken noodle soup?”

“Don’t eat it, then. See if I care.”

I looked up at him. “Did you threaten the hotel chef to make this? It’s your exact recipe.”

“Stop asking questions.” A muscle feathered in his jaw. “Just eat.”

I picked up the spoon. The first bite was light, warm, and something in my chest unclenched.

It tasted exactly the way he used to make it. My throat closed.

“Elena.” His voice had dropped to something almost tender. “You had a 103-degree fever last night. Do you know how close you came-”

He broke off. “Do you even care what happens to you?”

I set the spoon down. “Why do you care?”

“Because I do!” He dragged a hand through his hair.

“My God, Elena, do you think I spent three years looking for you just to watch you collapse from a fever in a hotel in Silvermont?”

I looked away. “You should hate me.”

“I tried.” He wheeled closer, his eyes locked on mine.

–

“God knows I tried. God knows I hated you – when I wrapped my car around a tree looking for you, when I woke up in this chair — I hated you for all of it.” His voice broke. “But watching you hit that floor last night, all I wanted was to tear apart whoever caused that fire.”

—

His fingers brushed the edge of my scarf. The scarf hid the worst scar – neck.

“Does it still hurt?” he asked.

I flinched before I could stop myself. “I’m fine. It doesn’t hurt anymore.”

“Look at me.” Quiet. Almost a plea.

I met his gaze.

the one that crawled up my

“I’m sorry.” Barely above a whisper.

I shook my head. “Don’t. This is my fault. All of it.”

“No.” His voice was steel. “It’s not.”