Chapter 6 The Burn

The heat starts in my bones.

I don’t know how long I’ve been lying here. Minutes? Hours? Either way, the silk sheets are soaked with sweat, and every time I move, my skin feels like I’ve been dipped in acid. My teeth are chattering even though I’m burning alive from the inside out.

“Okay,” I gasp. “Okay, Thelma. You’re fine. This is fine.”

It’s not fine. Nothing about this is fine.

I roll onto my side and curl into a ball. My stomach cramps so hard I nearly scream. The hunger from before was bad, but this is something else entirely. This is my body tearing itself apart cell by cell, remaking me into something I don’t recognize.

I kick the sheets off because they’re suffocating me. Then I’m freezing, and I drag them back. My hands shake so violently I can barely hold onto the fabric. The silk feels like sandpaper against my oversensitive skin.

What’s happening to me?

The fever climbs higher. I can feel it spreading through my veins like fire, racing toward my heart and then pulsing outward to every extremity. My fingers ache. My toes cramp. Even my hair hurts, which shouldn’t be possible, but here I am, feeling every single strand like a needle in my scalp.

I try to stand. I make it two steps before my legs give out, and I crash to the floor. The carpet is soft against my cheek, but I can’t appreciate it because I’m too busy trying not to vomit. My stomach heaves, but nothing comes up. There’s nothing left inside me except this terrible, gnawing emptiness.

“Help,” I croak. My voice sounds like gravel scraping against concrete. “Somebody help me.”

No one answers. The mansion is silent except for my own ragged breathing.

I crawl toward the door. Every inch takes everything I have. My arms tremble, and my vision swims. The rug burns against my knees, and I’m leaving a trail of sweat behind me like some kind of wounded animal. By the time I reach the wood, I’m panting and drenched and certain I’m going to die on this floor in a stranger’s mansion.

I pound my fist against the door. Once. Twice. The third time, I hear the wood crack under my knuckles, and I don’t care. Let the whole thing come down.

“Please,” I sob. “Please, someone. Anyone.”

The fever spikes again, and I curl into myself on the carpet. My back arches as another cramp tears through my abdomen. Hot tears stream down my face and pool on the floor beneath my cheek. The salt stings my lips.

The pain comes in waves—building, cresting, then receding just enough for me to catch my breath before it slams into me again. Each wave is worse than the last, and I’m running out of strength to ride them.

I think about my life before this. My apartment with the leaky faucet I never fixed. My job at the marketing firm that I complained about constantly but secretly loved. The coffee shop on the corner where the barista knew my order by heart. My mother’s voice on the phone every Sunday, asking when I was going to visit.

Does she know I’m missing? Is anyone looking for me? Or have I just vanished, another face on a missing poster that no one will ever find?

The door opens, but I don’t have the strength to look up. I just lie there on the carpet, shivering and burning and broken, hoping whoever it is will either help me or put me out of my misery.

Footsteps cross the room. Then hands are on me—cool, strong hands that feel like heaven against my fevered skin. Thad lifts me off the floor like I weigh nothing and carries me back to the bed. I press my face against his chest and breathe in that sandalwood scent, letting it anchor me.

“Please,” I whisper. “Please help me. It hurts. Everything hurts.”

He sets me down on the mattress and brushes the damp hair off my forehead. His fingers leave trails of cool relief wherever they touch. “I know. This is normal.”

“Normal?” A hysterical laugh bubbles up from my chest. “This doesn’t feel normal. This feels like dying.”

“You’re not dying. Your body is adjusting.”

“Adjusting to what?”

He doesn’t answer. He just looks at me with those grey eyes, and I hate him. I hate him for knowing what’s happening and refusing to tell me. I hate him for being so calm while I fall apart. I hate him for smelling so good when I’m lying here drenched in my own sweat.

But I also want him to keep touching me. His hands are the only thing that doesn’t hurt.

“Make it stop,” I beg. “Please. I’ll do anything. Just make it stop.”

He pulls his hand back, and I whimper at the loss of contact. “You need to feed.”

“I can’t. I can’t drink more of that—” Another cramp cuts me off, and I curl into a ball, gasping through the pain.

“Blood. You need more blood. That’s the only thing that will help.”

The word stops me cold. Blood. I knew it. Somewhere deep down, from the moment that copper taste hit my tongue, I knew. But hearing him say it out loud makes it real in a way I wasn’t prepared for.

I shake my head even though the motion makes me dizzy. “No. No, I’m not—I can’t be—”

“You are.” He stands up and looks down at me with something close to pity. “And until you accept that, you’re going to keep suffering.”

I want to tell him he’s wrong, that there’s another explanation, that I’m still human and this is all some horrible nightmare I’m going to wake up from any second now.

But the fever is eating me alive, and I’m so tired of fighting.

“Okay,” I whisper. “Okay. Just … please. Help me.”

Thad works his jaw, and he turns toward the door, making my panic spike again.

“Where are you going? Don’t leave me. Please don’t leave me alone.”

He pauses with his hand on the doorframe. When he looks back at me, something in his face makes my heart stutter despite the agony.

“I’m getting what you need,” he says. “I’ll be back.”