I can’t help but think that this is my fault. That this is a punishment, somehow, for what I’ve done. For letting myself break my vow with her. For giving in to temptation.
“Stay with me,” I whisper, clutching her hand in mine. “Youbeggedme not to leave you, Sasha. To bring you here. You can’t leave me now. Not after you’ve been through so much. Whatever this is–it isn’t strong enough to take you. Itcan’tbe.”
There’s nothing. Not a word or a sound from her lips, and it makes me feel almost feral with desperation. This isn’t how I wanted things to end between us.
We’d barely spoken at lunch. It feels as if the last real conversation we had was an argument–that it was me telling her that I can’t love her, that sheshouldn’tbe in love with me. A conversation that ended with her going off to the bedroom alone.
What could I have done differently?I can’t make promises to her that I know I can’t keep. I can’t let myself be the one to hurt her, to break her heart. I never should have touched her to begin with.
It had felt so good, all of it. Her lips on mine, onme. Tasting her for the first time, touching her. The exquisite pleasure as she became the first woman I ever slept with. I did it to show her how much I care for her. That I wanted to give hersomething, even if I couldn’t give her forever.
I’ve crossed so many lines for her, and maybe that’s where I’ve gone wrong. I let myself make excuses for my own lusts, justified them in any way I could, and now this is the result.
If she dies, it will be my fault.
In the very depths of the rational part of my brain, the part that hasn’t been conditioned to believe that this sort of punishment is the result of sin, I know that makes no sense. But that part isn’t loud enough to drown the rest out, and so I sit next to Sasha as I wait for the doctor to come, holding her hand, that same phrase repeating over and over again in my head.
If she dies, it will be my fault.
I stand up when I finally hear footsteps on the stairs and a hesitant knock at the door.
“Maximilian?” Giana’s voice comes through the heavy wood. “The doctor is here. Shall I let him in?”
“Go ahead.” My voice sticks in my throat, and I clear it roughly. “Send him in.”
The new doctor is nothing like the family physician that I remember from my childhood. The formal-looking man who used to come around whenever any of us were ill was older then than Giana is now, stern and no-nonsense, with an air of confident authority that made anyone, even my mother who tended towards hypochondriasis, feel assured that he would heal whatever ailed them.
The doctor who walks in, a friendly smile on his face, looks younger than me. He’s wearing tan chinos and a plaid shirt with the sleeves rolled up, his brown hair messy, and his youthful appearance lacking the severe confidence that I’d come to associate with doctors.Bedside mannerwasn’t something my father looked for when entrusting the health of his family to someone. And this man, while he looks as if he has it in spades, also looks as if he’s young enough to still be in residency.
“Mr. Agosti.” He tips his chin down respectfully. “I’m Dr. Guerera. Ms. Giana called me and said there was an emergency?”
“Indeed.” I step back, so he can see Sasha. “But I think there might be a mix-up–”
“Not at all.” Dr. Guerera flashes me another smile, pearly-white teeth and all. “I know I might not be who you expected. My father passed on a few years ago–not long after your own father died. God rest their souls. I took over the practice–and, naturally, came to visit the estate. Not that I’ve been out here much–Giana and Tommas are remarkably healthy, despite how they’re getting on in years.”
“All that Italian sunshine, I suppose,” I manage through gritted teeth, moving closer to Sasha’s bedside. “If you’re what we’ve got, then get on with it.”
I’m aware that my own manner leaves a great deal to be desired, but Dr. Guerera, if he’s off-put by it at all, doesn’t show it. “Can you tell me what happened?” he asks, stepping close to Sasha and gently touching her forehead. “Giana said that she collapsed, but she didn’t have much for me beyond that.”
Something in me bristles at the sight of the young man touching Sasha’s forehead, his fingers brushing over her skin. I shove the feeling aside as harshly as I can. Jealousy won’t help Sasha.
“Unfortunately, I don’t have much more knowledge of it, either. She seemed fine–a little tired or jet-lagged, maybe, after we left lunch, but otherwise, fine. And then–she collapsed.”
Dr. Guerera frowns. “Walk me through the order of events?”
“We got on a plane in New York–a private jet from a trusted friend. We flew straight here–she spent a good portion of the flight sleeping, or at least in a separate room. When we arrived in Italy, we drove to town here, had a light lunch at the cafe, and then came here.”
“And you say she started seeming unwell after lunch?”
I nod. “This seems a bit extreme for food poisoning, doesn’t it?”
“It does.” He touches her forehead again, fishing out his stethoscope. “I’m going to take some blood and run tests immediately. I can’t determine a course of treatment until I know what’s wrong, or we risk harming her more. But this seems very strange. She’s running a dangerously high fever.”
I feel helpless, standing there watching as Dr. Guerera takes her vitals and blood samples. Each minute that ticks by feeling like one closer to losing Sasha forever. This isn’t something I can fight off or defend her from. It isn’t even a danger that I recognize.
When the doctor finally leaves, with promises to call me as soon as he has results, I sit back down at Sasha’s side, her heated hand in mine. Her beautiful face is pale except for the hotly flushed spots on her cheeks, more red flushing creeping down her neck and chest, made all the more startling by the greyish-white cast of the rest of her skin. “Whatever happens,” I murmur, stroking the back of her hand gently with my thumb, “I won’t leave you.”
“I promise you that.”