Page 7 of Stay Little Fighter

Searing hot skin presses against my palm, and my stomach rolls with anxiety.

She has a fever.

Going against the doctor’s orders, I tug the blankets down and gently brush my fingers down her arm, trying my best to wake her slowly.

The last thing she needs right now is to be startled.

“Chloe,” I murmur. “Wake up for me, Mama.”

It takes three attempts to rouse her, but when bloodshot eyes blink up at me, I struggle to keep my face neutral.

“Hi, pretty girl,” I say softly. “How are you feeling?”

She frowns, her eyes tracking around the room as she gets her bearings. I think if I slept for as long as she has, only waking up a handful of times to use the bathroom, I’d be pretty fucking disoriented as well.

Green orbs finally meet mine. “I don’t feel right,” she croaks.

I suck in a breath, forcing my body to remain calm despite the anxiety that rolls through my gut. “Tell me what’s wrong, Mama.”

“I’m…damp.”

“Do you think you just had too many blankets?”

“No.” She shakes her head as a shiver vibrates through her body. “I’m not hot. At least, I don’t think I am.”

Her frown deepens, and I reach for my phone to call the doctor. She’s going to stop answering my calls soon if I’m not careful, but I need her to come check Chloe. I’ll never be able to forgive myself if I ignored my gut and something happened to her.

I already did that once.

Shaking off the thought, I force my mind from my late best friend. There will be time for a pity party once I’m sure Chloe is okay.

I reach for the water bottle on the bedside table and slip an arm behind her back to help her sit up.

She hisses at the movement, her good hand shooting out to steady herself.

“Chloe?”

“Something’s wrong,” she whispers, slowly dragging her hand from beneath the blanket and for a second, my entire world tips on its axis.

Thick crimson coats her fingers, and we both stare for long seconds.

I shove myself to my feet and tear the blankets back, uncovering her bare legs and a pool of blood beneath her.

So much fucking blood.

“King,” she whispers, her voice breaking under the weight of the word.

Without hesitating, I scoop her off the bed and set off running toward the door.

I don’t give a fuck about the seats of my car or the fact we’re both hardly dressed.

All that matters is getting her to the hospital as soon as humanly possible.

“It’s going to be okay, Mama. Just hold on for me.”

The words burn as they leave my throat, and I’m not sure which of us I’m desperately trying to reassure.

CHAPTER FOUR