Winter's Woman (The Wicked Winters #9) - Scarlett Scott Page 0,52

newborn foal’s.

“Theo?”

The hopeful whisper was familiar.

Hers.

He inhaled sharply, but even that movement brought him pain. He clenched his jaw to stave off a wave of nausea.

Damn it, he had not been wrong about the scent. She was here, somewhere near to him in the darkness. He wanted to touch her so badly he shuddered. But then, he realized his teeth were chattering. And suddenly he was cold, so cold. Shaking with the chill. He could not get warm enough.

Nor could he speak.

Fingers gently stroked his hair. Soft, knowing, delicate fingers. He closed his eyes and thought of them, pale and elegant, the nails rounded, the pads silken. But she must not be here. Did she not understand? He was doing this for her. Because he could not bear for her to ever be in danger again. Because he could not make her his knowing she would one day resent him.

It was better this way.

She was too good for his sorry arse.

Better off without him.

She would see, one day.

But for now, he could not muster the desire to send her away. Not when she was touching him with such tenderness. He could almost pretend she loved him. Stupid, he knew.

No one could ever love Devil Winter.

Still, he closed his eyes and sank back into the alluring depths of sleep as her fingers gently swept over him.

Morning dawned over the East End just as it did in Mayfair. The East End was louder, brasher, dirtier, more crowded and dangerous. Smellier, too. But the sun rose all the same.

Evie had pulled back the window dressings herself to allow light to filter into Theo’s sickroom. She had also opened the window, and the evidence of the East End’s sometimes pungent presence was making itself known as a swift breeze blew through the room. He needed sunlight. And fresh air. Unfortunately, the air was not terribly fresh. But it was better than the stale air of his sickroom, and it would have to do.

Evie bathed Theo’s feverish forehead with a damp, cool cloth.

For days, she had stayed away, following his wishes. Until at last, Dom had told her Theo’s condition had taken a grave turn. Infection had settled in. She had gone to The Devil’s Spawn, determined that no one would get in the way of her seeing him and tending to him.

She had never felt more helpless in her life than she had when she had first entered his chamber to find him lying so pale and still upon his bed, his dark hair soaked with perspiration, the bandage on his shoulder soaked through with the balm she had applied and streaks of blood. The felled beast.

And she was responsible for everything that had happened to him.

That had been two days ago.

She had not left his side since, and she was determined she would not. Not until he opened his eyes and demanded she go. Or not until he breathed his last. She was more determined never to allow the latter to occur, to do everything in her power to see him live.

The horrible reality was that it was possible Theo would not survive the infection that had claimed him. That he would succumb to the fevers ravaging his body. A sob rose in her throat, but she forced it down, refusing to allow herself to cry. She had wept enough during the days she had honored his request for separation.

His skin felt cooler today than it had the day before, and she had sworn in the depths of the night that he had been awake. He had been moving, not thrashing in his bed as he did when in the grips of his delirium. But rather, his motions had seemingly been deliberate and slow. The actions of a lucid man.

At least, that was what she dared to hope.

She had stroked his hair until at last, his steady, reassuring breathing had lulled her into a brief, dreamless sleep. When the first strains of dawn had filtered through the curtains, she had been awake, checking him for any signs of change.

Praying and tending and loving—that was all she could do for him, and she was willing to perform them all, in any order, repeatedly, until he was well.

He shifted beneath her ministrations, a groan tearing from him, along with a hiss of pain as he attempted to move his injured shoulder.

Hope soared. “Theo?”

Long, dark lashes moved on his pale cheeks. Slowly, they rose, revealing his beloved blue gaze. Bluer than the summer sky in the