The Fever King (Feverwake #1)(81)

“I told you I’d handle Gordon Ames, and I will. That’s not the point, Noam!”

“You have a point? Well, thank god for that.”

The noise Dara made was wild, derisive and deranged all at once. He spun on his heel, striding toward the door—but as soon as he reached the other end of the room, he just turned round and paced back again. If Noam weren’t so furious he might be worried, because Dara . . . Dara didn’t look well. He looked like someone who hadn’t slept in a week, manic and fevered.

“You—god, you’re so stubborn, and I—that’s what I love about you, it is, but it’s the worst thing about you, because now I can’t. If I, if you know, and he knows—knows you know—there’re some things I just can’t say, Noam. There—I won’t be the reason you die!” The last part burst out of him like a dam breaking, and Dara pressed both hands to his face, nails digging into his brow.

“Dara . . .”

Noam moved toward him, carefully this time—like Dara might bolt if he moved too quickly. Dara was shivering. Noam reached out, his hand hovering there, uncertain. When he finally touched him, Dara’s skin was hot and dry.

“It’s okay,” Noam said slowly. He let his hand settle more firmly where it was, palm against the sharp wing of Dara’s collarbone where it met his shoulder.

Dara slapped at his wrist, knocking Noam’s hand away. This time when he looked at Noam, his eyes gleamed with something more than just anger. Dara rubbed the heel of his palm against his damp cheeks, not that it did any good. “It’s not.”

“All right. It’s not. Do you want to . . . we can talk about it. I promise I’ll listen.”

Dara laughed, low and bitter. “No. It’s fine. I’m going to shower.”

It felt like his chest was caving in, organs crushed, even if Dara hadn’t said anything worse than what he already had. It wasn’t what Dara said, anyway. It was that Dara didn’t think there was anything he could say. That Dara was picking his shirt back up off the floor and walking away. That Noam stood there, naked in the middle of this room, and watched him go and didn’t stop him.

Noam took a shower in the girls’ bathroom with permission from Bethany and Ames, changing into dry clothes and waiting out in the common room for twenty minutes, thirty, just in case Dara needed the time alone.

But when he finally returned to the bedroom, Dara was already gone.





CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Noam saw the headline before anyone else. He’d been reading the news while he waited for his coffee to brew, print paper in one hand and the other reaching into a box of salted crackers. The front page was taken up by a story about an anti-Sacha attack down south in Charleston, twelve confirmed dead.

A terrorist attack meant the other story was pushed to the second page, as otherwise it would have been the top headline in every paper. A small banner on the first page declared the news:

HOME SECRETARY ASSASSINATED. Turn to p. 2.

Noam tore the paper open so quickly he nearly ripped the corner off.

A color photograph of the man took up half the second page; Gordon Ames wore his military uniform, the medal awarded for bravery pinned to his breast.

Noam put down his half-eaten cracker.

. . . Ames, 49, is survived by his brother Henry Ames and his daughter, Carter Ames . . .

“Have you seen this?” Noam said when Bethany emerged from the hallway, already wearing her drabs and boots.

Bethany held out a hand, beckoning. Noam passed her the paper. “Oh no,” Bethany murmured as she scanned the article. “Poor Ames. I guess that explains why she wasn’t here this morning.”

Never mind that. Ames was probably thrilled.

Noam did his best to look dismayed, but he had to keep biting back the twitch at the corners of his lips.

General Ames was dead.

That lying, murdering son of a bitch was dead.

It was a pity Noam wasn’t the one who killed him, but whatever, the outcome was the same. That’s what mattered.

“I’m gonna check on Dara,” Noam said.

Noam left Bethany with the paper, skipping a little on the off step as he headed down the hall toward the bedrooms. The door to the bathroom was shut, thankfully. From the sound of it, Taye was taking a shower. Dara was a lump beneath his bedsheets, face turned to the wall and his hair a dark halo against the sheets.

Dara would forgive Noam for waking him when it was news like this.

He crouched on the floor by Dara’s bed and set a hand on his shoulder, shaking him as lightly as he could. “Dara,” he whispered. Dara didn’t move. “Dara.”

Dara mumbled something indistinct and swatted at Noam’s hand.

“What?”

“Let me sleep,” Dara said, curling tighter beneath the covers.

It was Sunday, but it wasn’t like Dara to sleep in. He’d come back late last night, long after Noam had gone to bed. They hadn’t talked about what had happened in this same room, bare skin on skin, all those soft little noises muffled against each other’s mouths.

Or what came after that.

Noam frowned. “It’s eight thirty.”

“I don’t feel well.”

Noam couldn’t see Dara’s face from here. Just his hair, a messy tangle on the pillow. Noam wanted to twist one of those loose curls around his finger. Inappropriate. You’re supposed to be announcing a murder. And Dara was possibly—probably—still angry.