Water dripped from the ends of June's hair, leaving a trail of dark spots on the polished marble of the grand foyer. She shivered, a deep, uncontrollable tremor that shook her entire frame.
"Ma'am!" Maeve, the head housekeeper, rushed forward, her face etched with alarm. She held out a thick, dry towel. "You're soaked to the bone! You'll catch your death!"
June waved a hand dismissively, though her teeth were chattering. "I'm fine, Maeve. Just... need a hot shower."
She wanted to get upstairs, to lock herself in a room, to be away from the man who was now stepping through the front door behind her.
Augustus entered, shrugging off his drenched suit jacket and handing it to a waiting footman without a word. He looked at June's pathetic, dripping form, his expression as cold and hard as ever.
June placed a hand on the sweeping curve of the main staircase's banister, the cold wood a shock to her system. She started to climb, each step an monumental effort. Her head was starting to spin, the ornate patterns of the wallpaper swimming before her eyes. Her legs felt heavy, like they were filled with wet sand.
She reached the landing, the halfway point. She paused, trying to catch her breath, but the world tilted violently. The edges of her vision went dark. A roaring sound filled her ears.
Her grip on the banister failed. Her knees buckled.
With a small, helpless gasp, she pitched forward.
"Ma'am!" Maeve's scream was sharp with terror.
Augustus, who had been watching her slow ascent with a detached scowl, whipped his head around at the sound. He saw her falling.
Time seemed to slow down. He saw her body go limp, her head lolling, aimed directly for the sharp marble edge of the next step.
His heart seized in his chest, a brutal, painful clench.
He didn't think. He reacted.
He crossed the foyer in a blur of motion, taking the stairs three at a time. He lunged upwards, his arms outstretched.
He caught her.
He caught her just as her head was inches from the stone, her limp body collapsing into his arms. She was terrifyingly light, like a bird with broken wings. And she was burning up. The heat from her skin soaked through his damp shirt, a dry, feverish blaze that was instantly alarming.
He looked down at her face. Her skin was ashen, her lips tinged with blue. Her eyes were closed, her lashes dark against the translucent skin beneath.
"Another one of your tricks?" The words came out automatically, a reflex of his ingrained disdain.
But they sounded hollow, ridiculous, even to his own ears. This was not an act. Her shallow, ragged breaths, the scorching heat of her forehead against his chest-this was real.
"Sir, she's terribly ill!" Maeve cried, rushing to his side. "We must call a doctor!"
Augustus stared down at June's unconscious face, his lips pressed into a thin, hard line.
He adjusted his grip, sweeping her legs up, and lifted her fully into his arms. Her head lolled back, resting in the crook of his arm. It was the first time he had held her like this in their three years of marriage. The thought was a strange, unwelcome intrusion.
He turned and started walking quickly, not up the stairs, but back toward the front door.
"Maeve," he barked, his voice tight with an urgency he didn't recognize. "Forget Dr. Reed. Have the driver bring the car back around. We're going to the hospital."
The staff scrambled to obey, a flurry of panicked but efficient activity.
He carried her out into the rain and slid into the back of the Bentley, settling her gently on the seat, her head pillowed on his lap. As the car pulled away, June moaned softly in her delirium, her brow furrowing in pain.
A strange impulse moved through him. He lifted a hand, his fingers hovering over her forehead, wanting to smooth away the lines of distress. He stopped himself just before he made contact, his hand clenching into a fist.
He dropped it back to his side, his face hardening into its familiar, cold mask.
He was just handling a problem, he told himself as he stared out at the rain-lashed streets. It would be an inconvenience, a scandal, if she died in his house. That was all this was.
But the radiating heat of her body, the fragile weight of her head on his thigh, were silent, stubborn arguments against his own lie.
