“Headaches, right?”
No. Yes…
Gripping his shirt, I meet his lips halfway in a soft touch. He doesn’t push or act as animalistic as we did before. Our lips graze each other’s a few times before he presses down so his hardness is settled between my legs.
I wince when one of his hands grips my hip, but the pressure of him squeezing it makes me cry out. “Wait. Stop.”
Pushing up on his arms, he rolls off me and studies my face. “Em?”
I shake my head, feeling my whole face heat with embarrassment. “I’m sorry. I just…”
He lies down, opening his arm up for me to cuddle in like he doesn’t mind me telling him to stop. He told me he would, and I have no reason to think he’d go against his word when he’s been uncharacteristically nice to me.
Well, for the most part.
“My sister died of an incurable autoimmune disease,” I whisper against his chest. Closing my eyes, I picture Logan. “She never showed it, but I know she was in a lot of pain, especially the months leading up to her death.”
His hand rubs my upper arm. “Is that like a twin thing? You sensed her pain?”
It’s hard to breathe suddenly. “No.”
He keeps rubbing my arm.
“I have the same disease, Kaiden.”
His palm freezes.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
I’m not sure what to expect, but it’s not this.
Kaiden gets off my bed like it’s on fire, and I worry that he’s one of the many uneducated people who think he’ll somehow catch my disease like it’s contagious. Except it’s not concern or disgust on his face, it’s something far darker. It’s a mixture of anger and betrayal and a third emotion I’m not sure should be mixed with the others.
Slowly sitting up, I wince when the loud sound of my hip and elbow popping echoes in the silence between us. His eyes go to the sound, then to my face, before he studies the rest of me.
“Kaiden—”
“Don’t.” His voice is too sharp to disobey.
Zipping my lips, I watch as he searches for something across my features. His gaze dips downward, sliding over my body. There are advanced cases of some diseases that show just how much they impact people externally, but most times it’s an invisible internal battle.
People think sickness has a face.
They think disease is an ugly word.
I used to be embarrassed by it—maybe I still am. Nobody in their right mind thinks disease is a pretty thing. Most people associate it with things that could be controlled, as if it’s my fault I’m sick.
I can walk, talk, and go to school.
I must be fine.
“You’re not going to find anything,” I finally say, brushing my sweaty palms down my thighs.
He finally meets my gaze again.
Then he swears. Loudly.
Throwing the door open to my room, it slams against the wall and leaves a hole where the knob strikes. Cringing, I scurry off the bed and follow him into the hall.