27
Karma
I hear the door open and I squeeze my eyelids shut. My heart begins to race and my pulse pounds at my temples. In all honesty, I don’t have to pretend that I am unwell. The sheer nervousness of what I am trying to pull off here has me feeling faint. Oh, also the fact that I haven’t eaten in nearly a day. It’s been twenty-four hours since Aurora left. I’d told Cassandra to leave my meals outside my door and she had obliged. I had then flushed the food down the toilet… Ugh, I know, one shouldn’t waste food. But it was either that or involve Cassandra in my scheme. And while I had been tempted, I hadn’t wanted to put that heavy of an onus on her. It would have meant putting my trust in her, and while I sort of do trust her, especially since she helped me the last time around... But this…this is different.
I am throwing everything I have behind this. This time, I am going for broke in trying to escape, and if Michael ever found out that Cassandra had helped me, he wouldn’t hesitate to kill her, and honestly, I can’t live with her death on my conscience. This is what I get for becoming close to her. Damn it.
Guess that’s why Michael prefers to keep his emotions bottled up inside and not get too involved with anyone…Except for his brothers, of course. The way those men look out for each other, it totally reminds me of Summer and me and our relationship.
Shit, Summer. I really do miss my sister. Hopefully, though, I’ll be out of here and with her very soon. If everything goes well, that is. Footsteps approach and the heavy tread, the even gait, proclaims it’s his. I sense him sink down to his knees next to me… Yeah, I had pretended to faint in front of Cassandra, and hit the floor…which had hurt, but it had been worth it.
Fingers touch my cheek and my pulse rate spikes again. I flutter open my eyelids, gaze into his burning blue eyes. "Mika," I whisper, "you came?" Ugh, drama much? But Michael doesn’t seem to suspect a thing. His features pale. A groove appears between his eyebrows as he scoops me up in his arms. His heartbeat thunders against my cheek, in synchrony with mine, as he walks over to place me on the bed.
He sits down next to me, leans over, and place his palm on my forehead. "What happened?" he murmurs. His voice is so soft, so gentle, so unlike how he’s ever spoken to me before that a tear squeezes out from the corner of my eye. Shit, shit, shit. Why the hell am I feeling so weak in front of him? And all because he showed me a little tenderness.
"Shh!" He leans over and kisses my forehead, "Are you okay? When I saw you collapsed on the floor I…" His shoulders seem to shudder. Umm… What? Is he faking it? But why would he? On the other hand, why does he seems so upset that I am unwell?
He pulls back and I clutch at his arm. "Michael," I cough, "I…I don’t feel so well."
He frowns, then places a palm against my forehead, "You do seem warm. Is that why you fainted?" He glances around the space, "Is it too stuffy in here? Should I change the location of my bedroom?"
Eh? He’d change his bedroom to another room in the house, rather than just movemeto another room? Hold on, he’s offering to change rooms because he thinks I’m uncomfortable in this room? In his room? "You'd do that for me?" I whisper.
"Of course." He cups my cheek, "I’d do anything for you,amore mio, don’t you know that by now?"
"Only, you won’t release me."
His jaw hardens, "You know I can’t do that,tesoro mio."
I swallow. Bloody hell when he uses those gorgeous Italian words on me, words which I now know the meaning of, then he completely slays me. I bring my hand to my chest and press it against my heart thumping against my rib cage.
"What’s wrong?" He scowls, "Are you okay?"
"I…" I clear my throat, "I… I am fine." I only partly lie. Truth is, my stomach has tied itself up in knots, and a coldness has wrapped itself about my shoulders. I glance away from him, as I bite the inside of my cheek. "I… I am sure it’s nothing."
His frown deepens.
"I am sure I will be okay," I cough. "I just need to… Maybe close my eyes for a little bit." I do just that, allow my shoulders to shudder.
I hear him inhale a sharp breath. "You are definitely not fine," he growls. He places his palm on my forehead, and honestly, it feels cool against my skin.
Shit, I am not really running a fever, am I? A shiver grips my body. I turn over on my side, curl into myself. "I… I’ll be okay," I whisper.
"Bull-fucking-shit," he growls, then grips my shoulder. "You’re not okay at all. What’s happening? Talk to me, baby."
I freeze. Baby? He called me baby? Shit, why does he choose now to call me baby? Now, when I am trying to pull another fast one over him. Deceive him. Try to escape him. NOW is when he decides to show that humane part of him hidden behind that mafiahole facade?
I cough, try to swallow it, and end up choking. That sends him into a veritable tizzy.
"Che cazzo!"he swears, his voice almost hoarse with panic. I sense him pull out his phone, dial a number. The phone rings once, then a male voice says,"Pronto?"
"Sebastian," he snaps, "ready the chopper! I need to take my wife to the hospital."
My muscles freeze. Chopper? He has a bloody helicopter on the island? Of course, he has a bloody helicopter on the island. But why hadn’t he mentioned it to me so far? Not that I can fly a helicopter or anything. Not that he’s had any reason to tell me. So, if he hadn’t mentioned it to me, does that mean he was hiding it from me? What else has he conveniently failed to tell me? My stomach twists. Bile bubbles up my throat. I sit up so suddenly that my head bumps his chin. Pain whispers down my spine. The phone slips from his grasp and hits the bed. I slide down the bed, then around him and swing my legs to the floor.
"Where are you going?"
I point in the direction of the bathroom as I take off toward it. I dive across the floor to the commode, then bend over it as the contents of my stomach gush out. Gross. I puke what little food I have left inside, considering I haven’t eaten for the last twenty-four hours. A cool hand grips my forehead. He gathers the hair back from my face as I continue to dry heave. My head spins and darkness laces the edges of my vision. I blink it away, reach for the toilet-paper, but he’s already there. He rips off a few sheets, hands them over to me, and I clean my mouth. He reaches over, flushes away the evidence of my being sick. I wince as I slump down onto the tiled floor, but of course, he catches me.