Divorce me I'm done serving you (Ayla) novel Chapter 712

Ayla said, "I want to check on the babies first. Then I'll wash up."

Draven didn't agree. "No."

"Why not?"

"You want to get them sick, too?"

Ayla hadn't thought of that. "Fine."

Draven stayed by her side. He didn't leave.

"Have you eaten?" Ayla glanced at him.

"Don't worry about me." His voice was hard, his face tight. He looked like he was in a terrible mood. Every feeling was right there on the surface. That naturally cold aura of his was intimidating enough on a good day. Like this, no wonder the doctor earlier had been stiff as a mannequin.

Ayla had no idea what he was upset about. She hadn't done anything wrong. She'd been perfectly cooperative. This moody, volatile version of Draven was a lot to handle.

Since he'd told her not to worry, she didn't press.

She turned on the TV and watched in silence.

Her cold-addled brain felt like mush.

Thinking back on everything that had just happened—how had she let Draven change her underwear?

And then there were the things he'd said before she fell asleep. Every word came rushing back. Ayla thought she'd honestly rather have a fever.

Draven must have had things to deal with. He stepped out.

Ayla seized the window while she still had some energy and went to wash up.

After, she sat back on the couch. She'd slept too long—lying down again would only make her back ache.

She'd been wound so tight for so long. Somehow, seeing Draven had snapped the string completely. Her body had finally given out.

It felt like everything was crashing down at once.

The doctor had said she was worn out, overthinking, and low on energy. She needed proper rest and nourishment. Between her weakened state and the cold, recovery would take several days.

Great.

Of all the times to get sick. And now she'd need days to recover.

To Ayla, being bedridden was a waste of time. She wished she were made of iron.

Being sick made everything more frustrating.

Ugh.

She sighed, stared at the TV without really watching it, and realized she hadn't stopped to rest in a very long time. The feeling of wasting a day was almost worse than the illness.

The medicine kicked in fast. Ayla passed out right there on the couch.

When she surfaced through the haze, she was lying in a warm, broad, familiar embrace.

Had she really lost that much weight? Draven hadn't seemed this massive before. Now the size difference was almost absurd. The arm draped across her stomach—his forearm was genuinely thicker than her leg.

How could a man be this strong?

His sheer presence was pressure.

Being held this tight wasn't sustainable. She actually couldn't breathe.

Ayla nudged Draven.

He woke almost instantly.

When his eyes opened, Ayla looked away on reflex.

"You're crushing me." Her voice had no strength behind it. No wonder she'd tolerated him squeezing her this hard.

Draven heard her voice and released her immediately. He sat up, leaned in close in the dim light, and studied her face with the intensity of a doctor doing a full exam. "Better?"

His voice was gentle. And underneath it, a thread of tension.

Ayla could still feel the dark mood radiating off him.

Draven's low, oppressive mood filled the room.

It was strange. Before, he'd been a man without visible moods. Being with him, she could sense his emotions, but she'd always had to guess what he was actually thinking.

Now, everything was on his face. The emotional turbulence was obvious. Oddly, it didn't make her uncomfortable. It actually made Draven feel more real.