Covet (Sinful Secrets 3)

“What’s the matter?” I whisper.

“Could you…put some stuff around my head?” His voice sounds tremulous and strange.

My mouth is open to ask what he means when his body starts seizing.

Sixteen

Finley

It seems to last eternity: his body jerking as his head lolls back against the

blankets. Each time his muscles jolt, his arms twitch, fingers curling slightly in the air. His face is slack, so he looks like a stranger lying helpless on his back there.

When it’s over, his mouth remains a bit open. A line of blood drips down his thick throat. I note the paleness of his skin, the stillness of his body—so still that I throw myself at him, pressing my shaking fingers to his jugular. I find his heart racing. Then my hands are on his face, they’re in his hair; my fingers push at his brow.

“Open your eyes!”

I jostle him and slap his cheek, and then his eyes crack open. He looks pained.

“Declan?” I’m not aware I’m weeping until I hear his name in my thin, breathless voice.

He blinks. His lips tremble. “Where am I?” The words are thick and slow.

My hand rubs his chill-covered arm. “You’re in the cave.” His body starts to quiver again. “We’ve been confined here together—remember?”

His mouth twists, a bit of a wince. His eyes close. When he opens them again, they seek my face.

“What’s…your name?” His voice is raspy.

“Finley!”

He flinches at the volume of my proclamation.

“Siren.” His lips scarcely move around the word. His gaze is hung somewhere over my shoulder—so although he says the word, his face remains a frightful blank.

His hand comes to his chin. He frowns when he draws it away and sees the smear of red there.

“Why’m…I bleeding?” His eyes shut as a shudder racks him. He tightens his jaw, and I can’t keep my hand from stroking his hair off his forehead.

“I think…you had a seizure.”

His eyes open. “I did?”

I nod. I stroke his hair again, and he exhales. “I…like that.”

Though his eyes remain open, they’re glassy and unfocused. His hand moves over his mouth again, the fingers shaking.

“Siren…I don’t feel good.”

“I’m so sorry.” I press my fingers gently to his jugular as his eyes cling to mine.

“Tell me how you feeling, darling.”

His big hand clutches his face. Then he’s shifting onto his side, flexing his legs, arching his back as if he’s in discomfort. His chest pumps as he breathes.

“What can I do?” I whisper, moving so I’m right in front of him.

He holds his fists out, and I wrap my hands around them. He spreads his fingers, and I lace mine through his damp ones. “Slow breaths.”