Stolen by a Sinner (Sinners #3)(29)

“I’m sorry,” she whimpers, her face contorting as if she might cry, but no tears fall.

Picking up the tray I used earlier, I hurry out of the room. I get a bowl of boiling water from the kitchen, putting in a couple of eucalyptus oil drops. Nisa makes us inhale it whenever we’re sick, and it always helps.

I also grab cold medicine and a bottle of water from the fridge, not wanting Lara to dehydrate from the fever.

When I walk back into the room, the woman looks sick as fuck, and I wonder if it won’t be better to take her to the emergency room.

It’s probably just the flu. Don’t fucking overreact.

I pull the table closer to the bed and set everything down. Reaching for Lara’s shoulders, I help her sit up and pull her closer. “Position your face over the bowl and take a couple of deep breaths.”

The moment she does as she’s told, she starts coughing again. I wince at how painful it sounds and begin to rub a hand over her back. With each cough, Lara leans closer to me until I’m all that’s keeping her upright. I wrap an arm around her and reach for the bottle of water. “Take a couple of sips.”

She tries to nod, strands of hair plastered to her clammy skin. When she’s done taking a couple of gulps, I set the bottle down and pour cough syrup onto a tablespoon. Lara takes the medicine, some strength returning to her body.

Once I’ve helped her lie down again, I walk to the bathroom and wet a facecloth under the cold water. The moment I enter the bedroom again, her eyes lock on me.

I sit down on the side of the bed and gently wipe the cool cloth over her heated face. “Since when have you been feeling sick?”

She clears her throat before she whispers, “This morning.” She takes a breath, then quickly adds, “I’m sorry.”

“Stop apologizing,” I mutter. “You can’t help that you got sick.”

The stress I put you under probably didn’t help as well.

I pick up the electronic thermometer to check her temperature. The gadget reads one hundred and three.

“Fuck,” I mutter. I grab two Tylenol and help Lara sit up again so she can take them. “Maybe I should take you to the hospital.”

She starts to shake her head, panic flashing over her face. “I’m fine. I can still work. I promise.”

What the ever-loving fuck?

“Stop saying you can work. You’re sick.”

Her features crumble into a pleading expression, intense panic making her look even more feverish. It has me reaching for the thermometer just to make sure her fever hasn’t gone up more.

“Please,” she begs, her eyes shining with unshed tears, “I’ll get better.”

I stare at Lara, taking in her fear and panic, then realizing she’s fucking terrified I’ll no longer have a use for her.

“Did Mazur kill employees when they couldn’t work any longer?”

Lara nods, the pleading look still etched into her features. “That’s how my mom died. She kept coughing until she couldn’t breathe, and once she left for the hospital, she never returned.”

Her words hit me unexpectedly hard, and for a moment, I can only stare at Lara.

“Jesus,” I mutter. Shaking my head, I say, “You’re not going to die. It’s just the flu. But you need to rest so you can get better.”

“I can rest?” she asks, her eyes burning on me.

My heart constricts as I nod. “I want you to rest, Lara.” I pull the bowl of steaming water closer. “Take another couple of breaths to loosen your chest.”

She seems to relax a little.

After she inhales the steam, I do my best to help her through the coughing fit. When she slumps against me, I can’t stop myself from wrapping my arms around her.

“Shh,” I try to pacify her the way Nisa comforted us whenever we didn’t feel well. “You’ll be better soon.”

“You’re not angry?” Lara asks, her voice filled with a world of vulnerability.

“No, I’m not angry.”

I rub a hand up and down her back, keeping my other arm wrapped around her shoulders. Lara sits dead still, and minutes later, when I think she’s fallen asleep, I start to lay her down on the pillows, only to see she’s wide awake.

“You can sleep,” I murmur as I get up so I can fetch more boiling water.

“Gabriel Bey,” she whispers, once again looking at me like I gave her the world, “thank you.”

“Rest, Lara,” I say before I leave her bedroom. It’s only when I reach the kitchen, and I have the pot boiling on the stove, that I pay attention to the weird sensation in my chest.

Compassion. That’s what it must be.

When I return to the bedroom, Lara’s finally asleep. I rinse the facecloth beneath the cold water, and taking a seat on the side of the bed again, I gently wipe the strands of hair away from her skin.

I stare down at the woman everyone seems to love so much, and as the minutes tick over, I let the compassion I feel for her surface.

I take in her parted lips, her breaths shallow with a slight wheezing sound on every exhale. It has me standing up and heading back to the kitchen to look for one of the humidifiers my grandmother likes to use when the air is dry.

Rummaging through the cupboards, I finally find one and spend ten minutes trying to figure out how the thing works. When steam eventually spirals from it, I grin and head back to Lara’s bedroom. I plug the device in next to her bed and position it, so the steam wafts in her direction.