Alexandre’s eyes flicker open again. “Don’t—bother—”
I let out a huff, glaring at him. “No,” I tell him flatly. “You don’t get to do that. You’ve put me to work like fucking Cinderella from the moment I woke up in this place, demanded I serve you, kept me from going home, and then you tried to die and abandon me here. It didn’t work. So you’re going to let me do my best to help you, and I’m not going to argue with you about it.”
For a moment, I think I see the ghost of a smile flickering at the edges of his lips. He says nothing, but lets me put the pills on his tongue. Gently, I slide one hand behind his head, doing my best to raise him up so he can drink some water.
He doesn’t manage much before he starts coughing, and I let him fall back on the pillows. I dip the washcloth in the other bowl of water I brought for that purpose, gently patting it on his forehead and neck to try and ease the fever as I peer at the wound in his shoulder.
It looks worse, red and angry, along with a greenish tinge at the edges. “Let’s see what we can do about that,” I mumble to myself, finding some antibiotic ointment and peroxide in the kit.
When I dab the peroxide on the wound, Alexandre lets out a moan of pain, twitching away from me. “I’m sorry,” I say softly, dabbing at it more quickly. “If this gets worse and gets in your blood, I won’t be able to help you.”
“Better—that—way—” he groans, turning his head away, but I ignore him. After a few more minutes, I have it cleaned, a thin layer of ointment spread across it, and a gauze pad taped down over it.
It takes another several minutes to clean his wounds on his wrists and change the bandages. By then, Alexandre is out again. I let out a long breath when I finish, cleaning up around him and surveying my work.
It’s not that of a nurse by far, but I’ve done my best. I use the washcloth on him again, checking to see if his fever has dropped at all. Then, I crawl back onto the other side of the bed, picking up one of the books as I settle in for my second night at Alexandre’s side.
---
In the morning,his fever seems worse. He hasn’t eaten in over a day, and I’m afraid that the small amount of water I’ve managed to get him to drink isn’t enough.He’s going to die,I think, frustrated with myself and him as I look helplessly at his pale face in the morning sun. I’m frustrated with myself for not being able to better help him, for not knowing what to do, and frustrated—no,angrywith him for putting me in this position in the first place. For making me feel responsible for him, like a kitten left on my doorstep with no one else to care for it.
How the tables have turned.
I go to the kitchen to assess the food situation. Here I am, in a billionaire’s apartment in the middle of Paris, looking through the refrigerator to gauge how many days we can eat as if I’m back home in my London flat or stranded on a deserted island. If Alexandre doesn’t become more lucid soon, I’m going to have to tear through his office and bedroom looking for some petty cash to buy food and deal with the consequences later.
A cursory search turns up what appears to be some kind of bone broth or stock, and I leap at that, pulling it out and digging out a pot to heat it in.Soup helps when you’re sick, right?I have to figure out how to get him to consume it, but anything that’s both nutrients and liquid seems like the obvious answer. While it heats, I make myself more eggs and sausage, my thoughts turning to Georgie as I stir them.
As soon as Alexandre is lucid enough, I’m going to have to convince him to let me go as a reward for helping him.I can’t stay here any longer than I have to.I have to believe that Georgie is making it on his own, that he’s not starving or homeless. Still, my thoughts race in a dozen different directions of whatcouldbe happening, and none of it is good.
“He’s smart and tough,” I murmur to myself as I eat my eggs, talking out loud as if that somehow makes it more convincing. “He’ll be fine. He’s almost an adult.”
That doesn’t change the fact that I know I should be there taking care of him, as I promised. I just hope he didn’t try to find Harry’s bar and dig further into what happened to me.
With my breakfast finished, I pour some of the broth into a bowl along with another mug of water, and carry it into the bedroom. Alexandre is still asleep, and I put my hand on his shoulder, wincing at the heat I can feel burning through his skin.
“I’m going to help you sit up a little,” I murmur, wondering if he can hear me. “And try to wake you up, so you can eat. You have to eat, or you’ll die, and you’re not going to do that to me, do you understand? You’re not going to put this on me.”
As I speak, I slide an arm under his shoulders, slowly working to push him up onto the stack of pillows. I add another behind him, and I feel him shift, his eyes opening a crack as he comes back to consciousness.
“What—are you—doing?” he manages through dry lips. I give him my most stern glare, the one I’ve often used with Georgie. However, my relationship with Alexandre is far from sisterly.
“Feeding you,” I tell him firmly. “And you’re going to let me.”
His head turns limply to one side, his blue eyes peeking faintly from beneath his lowered lids. “Gone,” he whispers, his voice cracking. “All gone.”
“Who?” I spoon up some of the broth, sliding a hand behind his head as I hold it to his lips. His hair feels soft against my fingers, and I catch a hint of his scent, the woodsy, masculine smell of his skin. “Who’s gone, Alexandre?”
He lets me feed him the first spoonful, making a small noise as he swallows it. “All—of—them. Anas—tasia.”
“The ballerina.” I feel a small jolt of anxiety at the mention of her, remembering the papers in the office. “This was her room, right?”
He moves his head faintly, in a way that might be a nod. “Y—yes.”
Another spoonful of broth. “Where did she go?”
His eyes flutter closed. “Boston.”
The word is said more clearly than the others, with finality. I feel a wave of sudden relief, so great that I almost drop the spoon.She’s alive, then.I’d been so afraid that something horrible had happened to her, that she’d died somehow, by her own hand or his. But it sounds like she simply left him.