Total pages in book: 218
Estimated words: 205594 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1028(@200wpm)___ 822(@250wpm)___ 685(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 205594 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1028(@200wpm)___ 822(@250wpm)___ 685(@300wpm)
“Are you trying to distract me?” he growls.
“Absolutely.”
He huffs, but picks me up and takes me to bed anyhow.
As my lover helps me undress, I hope I’m right. I hope that this is just a minor hiccup, and someone will be arriving soon with food and enough potion for me to continue on. I don’t want to think about what will happen if no one comes.
Surely Erynne wouldn’t abandon me? Not when my presence here is so important to the kingdom?
Chapter
Fifty-Four
One Month Later
Potion days are actually the worst days.
Nemeth administers my potion at night, because it makes me sleepy and fatigued. I feel well all through the next day, even though I don’t take another round of my medicine that night, since we’re stretching it. The next morning, when I wake up, though, it’s rough. It always is. Between the nausea, the dizziness, and the cold sweats, it’s a long, horrible stretch of day until I get my next dose.
It’s something that has to be done, but it’s miserable.
Today is going to be a bad day. I know it the moment I wake up and my mouth floods with saliva. I reach for the chamber pot under the bed and barely manage to roll out from under the covers and onto the floor before I vomit. For what feels like forever, I throw up. When there’s nothing left in my stomach but bile, the vomiting eases and I lie on the floor next to the bowl, my face pressed to the cold stones of the tower.
“I hate this.” Nemeth’s deep voice is an angry growl over my shoulder. He moves to my side, producing a wet cloth that he presses gently to my brow. “You’re killing yourself in increments, Candra.”
“It’s fine,” I tell him. I keep my eyes tightly closed and lie on the floor for a bit longer. Most mornings seem to start with illness, lately, but it’s worse on the days where I’ve got to make it to bedtime before I get my potion. I’m eating less, just because I know it’ll come back up again, and I know that worries Nemeth. “I’m feeling better.”
“Will you eat something?”
Damn it, he’s calling me on my bluff. It’s just…lately breakfast has been a thin mushroom soup, and while I mentally appreciate it for being food, my stomach does not appreciate it in the slightest. “Soon.”
He growls, and I hear him pacing across the room. He returns a moment later and crouches low to the floor next to me. “I have water for you. Can you sit up?”
I manage, moving slowly, and I’m relieved that everything in my stomach seems to be gone. That means no more vomiting for now, at least. “I think I’m good. I feel better.”
Nemeth won’t take that for an answer, though. He never does. He helps me sit up, resting me against his strangely bent thigh, and giving me sips of water from my wooden cup. “How is your stomach now?”
“It’s fine.”
He huffs, clearly not believing me, and rubs a hand down my chemise, then pauses. “Your stomach is hard. Do you hurt anywhere? Any stabbing pains?” When I shake my head, he touches my stomach again. “Candra, I am worried.”
“There’s nothing we can do, love.” I lean in against him. “We just have to wait it out and see if anyone is coming.”
Nemeth wipes a sweaty lock of hair from my brow, his green eyes searching my face with worry. He’s been so good to me these last few weeks, taking over all the chores of our daily living because I’m too weak to help out. He helps me bathe, washes my clothes, and reads to me when I’m feeling too puny to get out of bed. I’m filled with so much love for him that it hurts, sometimes. This endless ache in my chest that wants nothing but the best for him.
And I know I’m holding him back. If he wasn’t sharing with me, his food would be lasting twice as long.
“Lie down on the bed,” Nemeth tells me. “I want to examine your stomach. If one of your organs is infected, it could make your belly hard. And if that’s the case, I cannot heal you.”
His anguished expression fills me with guilt. “I really do feel better, Nemeth. Truly. If my stomach is hard, maybe it’s just because I threw up? Or something I ate for dinner last night?”
“You did not eat dinner last night.”
Right. With a frustrated press of my lips, I get to my feet and let him help me to bed. I lie quietly as he pushes my chemise up and pokes and prods at my belly, leaning close. We haven’t had sex in at least a week now, because I’ve been feeling too awful, and I miss it—and his touch—terribly. I hate being sick. I hate feeling weak. I hate puking every morning. I hate that my potion only offers a short window of relief.