With Everything I Am (The Three #2)(92)

“I’d prefer champagne,” she murmured back, gazing at him curiously but matching his tone as if attentive to his mood.

His eyes slid to the clock and he noted the time.

His arm brought her ever closer as his hand slid into her hair, tenderly fisting and twisting, he brought her lips to his.

There he muttered, “Merry Christmas, baby doll.”

And he gave her a kiss that communicated the promise that her lonely Christmases past were a memory and that her every Christmas of the future would start just… like… this.

Her eyes were dazed when his mouth broke from hers, her breathing unsteady and she glanced adorably unfocused toward the clock, taking in a deep breath.

When her eyes refocused, she sighed and looked back at him.

He waited, uncharacteristically patiently, as her green eyes searched his face then looked deep into his, again like she was trying to read him and she doubted what she saw.

Finally, she whispered, “Merry Christmas, Callum.”

He was disappointed she didn’t call him “wolf” or any other sweet nothing she could dream up.

Even so, his disappointment didn’t last long since it was time for bed and the next new tradition Callum was going to introduce.

It was one Sonia liked a great deal.

And, at the end of that, she not only called him “my wolf”.

She screamed it.

* * * * *

Callum woke when he felt Sonia move out of his arms.

His eyes opened as his ears heard her tortured whimper.

His body froze when he saw her.

“Jesus, honey, what the f**k?” he clipped, his hand reaching out to her body which was still under the covers but up on all fours, her head bent low, her breathing erratic.

She reared violently away from him the instant the tips of his fingers glanced her skin but even so he felt the tremendous heat. It felt like she was roasting.

“Sonia,” his voice was sharper with his concern, “what the f**k?”

She didn’t lift her head when she panted her extreme understatement, “Cal, something’s wrong.”

She moved then emitted an almost animal whine and froze.

He slid as close to her as he dared and her breaths became gasps. She sounded like she was fighting for air.

“I’m calling an ambulance,” he announced.

“No!” she cried then gasped, “The syringe, did you fill the syringe?”

“Yes.”

“Full, Cal. Did you use it all?”

“Of course I f**king did.”

Her head twisted slowly and she looked at him, her eyes hazy but her voice was terrified when she whispered, “This is what it felt like when I didn’t take the injection. This is the burn. This is me boiling out of my skin,” she gasped then whimpered, terror stark in her tone like she didn’t know whether to scream or wail. “Cal, this has never happened while I’ve been taking the medication. Something’s wrong.”

Dread settled in his gut with the weight of an anvil and he declared again, “I’m calling an ambulance.”

“They won’t know how to treat me!” she cried. “The ER people won’t have even heard of this,” she moaned. “I’ve always been scared this would happen.” Then she released that animalistic whine again and Callum felt it score through his system.

“Your doctor,” he said suddenly.

She lifted her head and asked vaguely, “What?”

“Baby doll, your doctor will know what to do. Do you have his number?”

“In my phone, in my –”

She didn’t finish for Callum was out of bed and bounding down the stairs, literally. He planted a palm into the railing and leaped over the side coming to rest agilely on his feet on the landing. He did the same again from there and landed at the foot of the stairs.

He found her phone in her bag, the number in the phone and he rang it while he took the stairs, three at a time, going back up.

While Sonia, who’d thrown off the covers, looked to be fighting the battle of her life in the bed, Callum went through the rigmarole of phoning the on-call doctor who was not, regrettably, Sonia’s physician. This man took too long (in other words, more than ten seconds) to promise to contact Sonia’s doctor and they would be in touch urgently. The only positive thing that came from this was the fact that the on-call doctor seemed familiar with the lethal importance of Sonia’s illness and didn’t sound like he was f**king around.

Unable to touch her even to soothe her, Callum went to the bathroom and threw a towel in the tub, drenching it with cold water and not bothering to ring it out. He carried it to the bedroom and carefully threw it over her back.

“Yes,” she whimpered her relief, falling down to child’s pose under the large, wet towel, her arms stretched out in front of her.

Her phone rang and Callum snatched it from the receiver.

“Dr. Mortenson?” he clipped into the mouthpiece.

“You’re Sonia Arlington’s husband?” a man replied.

“Yes,” Callum ground out. “Is this Dr. Mortenson?”

“Yes, son. My colleague said she’s having a turn?”

A turn? He called this a f**king turn?

“She’s boiling to the touch and says she’s coming out of her skin.”