The Platonic Trap novel Chapter 119

Celia's reaction time was painfully slow.

Her forehead was slick with a sheen of sweat, her eyes were rimmed red, and even the tips of her ears were burning hot.

Alistair's words buzzed faintly in her ears, the meaning barely registering through the feverish haze.

She blinked slowly, gazing up at him with a look of pure, bewildered innocence.

The sharp lines of Alistair's brow dipped as his lips pressed into a thin line. He repeated, "Come downstairs. The doctor is here."

Finally processing his words, Celia gave a delayed, sluggish nod and obediently trailed behind him down the stairs.

The private doctor was already waiting in the living room.

Seeing a woman emerge from Alistair's fiercely guarded private sanctuary, the doctor wisely didn't ask a single question. He simply checked her temperature, examined her throat, and looked into her eyes.

"It's a severe cold. I'll prescribe some medication for the young lady."

Sitting limply on the sofa, Celia looked up and offered a slow, incredibly earnest thank you. "Thank you, Doctor."

The doctor waved it off politely and followed the maid out to fetch the medicine.

Alistair stood beside Celia, his gaze heavy and unreadable, not saying a word.

Celia was drained of all energy, her lips pale and bloodless.

The man towering over her radiated a freezing, oppressive aura, enveloped in absolute silence.

Slowly, gingerly, Celia nudged herself a few inches closer to him along the cushions.

Alistair felt the movement. He tilted his head, his dark, bottomless eyes staring down at her. Still, he remained silent.

A moment passed, and then he felt a sudden, scorching heat against his hand.

She must have been completely exhausted. With barely any strength, she reached out a single, trembling index finger and softly, delicately hooked it around his slightly curled knuckles.

The icy chill of his skin was instantly overwhelmed by her feverish heat.

Alistair instinctively tensed his hand, his fingers turning rigid, but ultimately... he didn't pull away.

—She was sick.

He closed his eyes briefly. When he opened them again, the frost in his gaze had thawed. He looked down at her.

Her eyes were hazy, glossed over with a layer of mist that made it impossible to tell what she was thinking. "Uncle Alistair, please don't be mad..."

Celia nodded weakly, too exhausted to say more.

She was curled into a tight ball on the sofa, her legs tucked beneath the white nightgown, which only accentuated how pale and terrifyingly thin she looked.

Her head drooped heavily, entirely devoid of life.

Her hand rested limply against his palm, almost as if she had just incidentally draped it there without thinking.

"I'm cold..." Celia mumbled, pouting slightly in protest.

It was already spring, so the heating in the living room was turned off.

Alistair frowned, shrugging off his suit jacket and draping the heavy fabric over her trembling shoulders.

"Once you take your medicine, go back upstairs," he ordered softly.

"Okay," Celia hummed obediently. She pulled his jacket tighter around herself, her cheeks flushed a brilliant, feverish red.

They sat there together on the sofa, the silence stretching comfortably between them.

Her breathing was shallow and uneven, beads of sweat still forming on her forehead.