Two Can Play (Celeste and Dominic) novel Chapter 163

Chapter 163

SERAPHINE

The drug pulled me under before could say another word, the exhaustion crashing over me like a wave, dragging me down into a darkness so deep I did not dream, did not stir, did not move until the morning light filtered through the curtains and pulled me back to the surface.

I opened my eyes to find Felix sitting on the other side of the bed, fully dressed, watching me with an expression I could not quite read. His elbows rested on his knees, his hands clasped together in front of him, his jaw tight.

I sat up slowly, the sheet falling away from my chest, and pressed my hand to my forehead. “Felix? What happened?”

“You do not remember?” His voice was flat, careful.

I shook my head, my brow furrowed, my eyes wide and confused. “My memory feels hazy. I remember calling you. I remember being in the hotel room. And then… nothing.”

“You called me yesterday. You said Celeste had injected you with something. You said you were going to die if I did not help you.”

I gasped, my hand flying to my mouth. “Oh no.” My voice rose, my eyes filling with tears. “What have I done? What have I done?

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“Relax,” he said, leaning forward, his voice softening. “It was not your fault. You were not in control of yourself.”

“No, no, no.” I scrambled off the bed, my legs unsteady, my body swaying as I stumbled toward the wall. “Celeste has ruined my life. I do not want to live anymore. I cannot live like this.”

I swung my head forward, aiming for the wall, aiming for impact. But his arms were around me before I could connect, pulling me back, turning me around, holding me against his chest.

I told him the name of the hospital, the one where I had already made arrangements with a doctor who owed me a favor, a doctor who knew exactly what to say and exactly how to say it. Felix nodded and reached for me, his arms sliding under my knees and around my back, lifting me off the floor like I weighed nothing.

“No,” I said, pushing against his chest. “I cannot go like this. I look terrible. I need to wash up first.”

He set me down and followed me into the bathroom, helping me into the shower, his hands gentle as he washed the evidence of the night before from my skin. He was careful, methodical, his touch professional rather than intimate, as though he was afraid that any hint of desire would confirm that he had done something wrong.

I let him wash me, let him dry me, let him dress me in the clean clothes he had somehow procured while I was asleep, and I kept up the act the entire time, my eyes glassy, my movements sluggish, my breath coming in shallow, shaky gasps.

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