The warmth of the car was a temporary reprieve. The moment they stepped back into the penthouse, Carolyn's legs gave out. She crumpled toward the floor.
Chandler caught her before she hit the ground, scooping her into his arms with a muttered curse. His hand brushed against her forehead. It was burning hot.
"Damn it."
He carried her straight into the master bathroom and, without ceremony, placed her in the large soaking tub, turning on the warm water. The sudden heat was a shock to her chilled body, and she moaned, instinctively reaching for him, her fingers clutching the fabric of his shirt.
"Don't go..." she mumbled, her mind hazy with fever. "Don't... go to her..."
Chandler stood frozen by the side of the tub, his face pale. Her delirious words twisted something deep inside him. He knelt, letting her keep her grip on his shirt, and used a soft washcloth to gently wipe the rain and grime from her face.
"I'm not going anywhere," he said, his voice softer than she had ever heard it. "I'm right here."
His promise seemed to soothe her. Her brow, creased with pain, relaxed slightly.
He helped her out of her wet clothes and into a soft, dry nightgown. His movements were awkward, unpracticed, but incredibly gentle, as if he were handling a piece of delicate glass.
He laid her in the massive bed, pulling the thick comforter up to her chin. He turned to get her medicine and a glass of water, but when he returned, she was curled into a tight ball, her body wracked with violent shivers.
He put the medicine on the nightstand. Then, he stared at her violently shivering form, her lips tinted blue from the cold. A fierce war raged in his eyes-his jaw clenched, the muscle jumping wildly as he wrestled with his own boundaries. With a harsh, self-loathing curse, as if condemning his own loss of control, he stripped off his own damp shirt. He lifted the covers and slid into bed behind her, his body a furnace of heat.
Her cold back pressed against his hot skin made her sigh in relief. She instinctively snuggled closer, seeking the heat.
Chandler tightened his hold, his chin resting on the top of her head. He could feel the tremors in her body slowly begin to subside.
"Cold..." she murmured, her hand covering his on her waist.
He buried his face in her hair, inhaling her scent. "I'm here to keep you warm," he whispered, his voice a low, husky rumble. "Just stay still."
In her feverish state, his body felt like a shield, protecting her from the memory of the storm, from the cold that had seeped into her bones. She turned in his arms, pressing her face into the solid wall of his chest, clinging to him like a lifeline.
His body tensed for a second, then relaxed. His hand began to gently pat her back in a slow, rhythmic motion.
In that moment, there was no contract. There was no Eugenia. There were only two people, finding warmth in the aftermath of a storm.
Hours seemed to pass. Her breathing evened out, the fever finally starting to break.
Chandler tried to carefully slip his arm out from under her, but she held on tight.
"Chandler..." she whispered his name, her voice thick with sleep. "You smell so good."
He froze. He looked down at the top of her head, at the way she was curled against him, completely trusting. A ghost of a smile, a real one, touched his lips before he quickly suppressed it.
He reached over and grabbed his discarded shirt from the floor. He gently tucked it into her arms, replacing himself. "Hold this," he grumbled. "Stop holding me. I'm hot."
She hugged the shirt, which still carried his scent and warmth, and with a soft smile, fell into a deep, healing sleep.
Chandler didn't leave. He sat on the edge of the bed and watched her all night.
