3 weeks later
Her nails leave crescent marks along his shoulders as Eli extracts his revenge for her extended isolation in what he'd dubbed her art cave. She'd spent the better part of the weekend lost in her creative pursuits ever since William's offer had sparked a fire in her, ignoring his existence.
To Eli Parrish, being ignored was an unforgivable offense, so he makes her pay for the neglect, drawing out her release in a maddeningly slow pace.
Her breath catches as his hands grip her hips. When she tries to speed things up, he simply holds her still, a throaty laugh rumbling through his chest. "Not so fast," he murmurs against her neck.
"Eli..." she whimpers, but he's not having any of it.
"You know what's truly fascinating?" He threads his fingers through her hair, tugging just enough to make her gasp. "All those blank stares and fake smiles. But this?" His other hand traces down her spine, making her arch against him. "This is when you're most honest."
"Oh, do shut up," she manages between breaths, earning a dark chuckle from him.
Everything else fades away, but this— the way his hands grasp her hips, his mouth blazing a trail of fire along her neck, the weight of his body holding her captive. Each thrust eliciting a fresh whimper, her body quivering under his as her thoughts dissolve into incoherent murmurs.
Her fingers clutched at his shoulders as the pressure builds, "Eli...please—Ah!"
"That's it," he murmurs against her ear, voice rough with need. "Let me hear you."
They reach their peak together, her gasps muffled against his shoulder as a low groan escapes him. She's still trembling when he rolls to his side, dragging her with him.
"Bleeding heck," Mae manages between shaky breaths, her heart thundering against her ribs. Her fingers trace absently over the crescent marks she's left on his shoulders. "I think you've broken something vital this time."
"Serves you right," he says, the bite in his tone softened by his breathlessness. "Maybe next time you'll think twice about disappearing into your artistic pit for days."
She shifts to look at him properly, finding his smirk slightly askew. "You're very high-maintenance for someone who claims to value solitude, you know that?"
"And you're chatty for someone who was just begging for mercy." His hand slides down her back, making her squeak. "Shall we test your limits again?"
"Don't you dare," she warns, trying to wiggle free, but his arm tightens around her waist. "I mean it, Eli. I can barely feel my legs as it is."
Instead of the fresh torment she's expecting, he simply tucks her closer, his breath evening out against her hair. Mae blinks at the anomalous nature of this development where he's dozed off after his bold proclamation. Be that as it may, she's too knackered to analyze the whole thing, her eyes lids drooping to the sound of his soft snores.
::::::
The dreaded alarm wakes her, but this time Mae doesn't startle awake and nearly break Eli's jaw.
Progress, that. She attempts to wrestle free from his octopus-like grip, only to find him completely unresponsive to both the alarm and her struggles—a miracle in itself, given that he wakes if a moth dares to flutter within a five-mile radius.
Through some maneuvering involving a bolster, she manages to silence the infernal device. But Eli only burrows deeper against her, his grip tightening.
"I believe you have a ten-mile torture session scheduled?" she prods.
Nothing.
"Eli."
Still nothing.
"For heaven's sake, I need to use the loo!"
His response is to deposit his entire weight on her, soft snores filling the quiet room.
Now genuinely miffed and with her bladder ready to burst, she pinches his cheek. "Release. Me This. Instant." Each syllable punctuated with a harder pinch.
Eli shifts, frowning. "What the bloody hell are you doing, Mae?"
"I need the bathroom, and you're imprisoning me," she grits out.
"Mm. My apologies." He rolls away, cocooning himself in the blanket before promptly falling back asleep.
Mae temporarily forgets about her bladder crisis because Eli Parrish has just apologized.
In their year of marriage, he'd never once uttered those words—not when he'd dragged her to that meeting while ill, not when he'd made remarks about her art cave, not even when he'd binned her favorite mug because it had a chip in it. She peers over at him, studying his flushed face. Was he ill? Can Eli even get ill? She tentatively feels his forehead, and he doesn't so much as twitch. He's burning up, actually, and she wonders if their shared body heat had masked the fever.
Her first order of business is having Matilda summon Dr. Harrison, because any illness capable of felling the Great Eli Parrish must be legendary. "Also," she adds, "before the doctor arrives, could you have the room sorted? Fresh sheets and all that? Get as much help as you need—he's not exactly conscious."
Matilda doesn't so much as blink at the request.
Mae takes the opportunity to freshen up and change, returning just as the maids are making a hasty retreat. She deduces Eli's awake, though the room at least looks presentable now, with fresh sheets and a semi-conscious CEO propped against the headboard.
"Eli? Are you with us? Doctor's on his way."
"What do I need a bloody doctor for? It's a headache. Get me an Advil. Two pills."
She fetches the medicine and offers it with water, but his attempt to grab the glass fails. Fortunately, she maintains her grip, preventing a disaster.
"Here," she brings it to his lips, which he accepts with a grunt.
He gestures vaguely at his state of undress, covered only by the duvet, "What've you done with my clothes?"
"How addled are you?" She's veritably mesmerized by this version of him. "Never mind, I'll fetch something suitable."
The task of dressing a 6'4" fever-stricken CEO proves to be quite the workout. By the time Dr. Harrison arrives, she's winded. The doctor attempts to examine a semi-conscious Eli, who keeps swatting away his hands while muttering about "elderly perverts" and threatening legal action for molestation.
Harrison maintains his professional demeanor, but Mae catches the slight twitch of amusement at the corners of his mouth. After an examination and the installation of an IV drip, he turns to Mae. "The fever's aggressive, but it's manageable. Mr. Parrish tends to experience more severe episodes than most. I've administered fever reducers, but given he's already had Advil, we'll need to monitor him closely. For now, keep his temperature down with cool towels."
Mae blinks at him, processing the implication that she'll need to play nurse to a delirious Eli. When Matilda appears with a wash basin, towels, and various hydrating drinks, she accepts her fate with resignation. Madam Parrish's responsibilities and all that rot.
As she begins unbuttoning the shirt she'd worked so hard to get on him earlier, Eli's lips curve into a decidedly wicked smile. "Taking advantage of my weakened state, Mrs. Parrish?"
She snorts, pressing a cool towel to his forehead. He shivers at the contact but doesn't resist.
The next two hours pass in a blur of towel-work and increasingly outlandish commentary from Eli, who's decided that while Dr. Harrison was a "decrepit opportunist," Mae is welcome to "have her way with him whenever she desires." It's both amusing and unsettling to hear him so openly appreciative of her, a sharp deviation from their regular pattern. He'd never once commented on her appearance beyond the occasional sardonic remark about paint stains or her "creative interpretation" of proper attire.
"My exquisite Mae," he sighs, abnormally gentle, "Absolutely stunning. More captivating than any masterpiece in existence."
Mae's so creeped out she nearly drops the towel. The closest thing to a compliment she'd received was "at least you're easy on the eyes"—and that had been on their wedding night, delivered with the same warmth of the ice berg that had sunk the Titanic. Their physical compatibility had never been in question, but Eli expressed his appreciation through actions rather than words. Even then, he'd never actually called her pretty. The most she'd get was an appreciative once-over when she made an effort for social events.
"Right then, enough of that nonsense. Just rest."
He continues, immune to her attempts to quiet him, "My Jade queen," he croons, "how little you think of yourself."
She's completely unnerved by him now. "Yes, yes, I've heard this lecture from your mother already. Now hush." She focuses on wiping down his legs, noting that while he's clean enough now to skip a shower, his temperature's still concerning.
"Listen to me." His grip on her arm is bizarrely strong for someone who couldn't hold a water glass earlier. "Say it after me: I'm pretty. I'm the most beautiful thing to exist. Everyone else is rubbish. Come on, say it."
"You're pretty, you're the most beautiful thing to exist, everyone else is rubbish—happy now? Give my arm back, I need to sort your ridiculous fever. Are those reducers even working?" She eyes the IV drip Harrison had installed.
"Incorrect, Mrs. Parrish." His grip remains firm. "I want to hear you say it about yourself."
She stares at him as though he's suddenly started speaking in tongues. This fever must be destroying his faculties because the real Eli would rather attend a meeting in a clown suit than engage in such sentiment. "Say it! That's an order, Mae!"
"What possible reason—" She drops the towel back in the basin.
He boops her nose like an overgrown child. "I don't say it 'cause I'm an arse, too much pride and all that. Mum says you need positive reinforcement. She was pissed that day, when I dragged you ill to meet that handsy Declan bastard. I... regret that incident." He pauses, looking unmistakably contrite. "Now say it!"
Mae swallows hard, unsure how to process this revelation. Perhaps it's just fever-induced rambling. Or maybe Eli's loose lips are spilling uncomfortable truths. She decides she'd rather not know—when he recovers, she'll have to deal with regular Eli again anyway. "If I say it, will you pipe down and sleep?"
"Anythin' for you, sweetheart." He manages a sluggish wink.
Good god… he really was losing his mind.
"I... I'm pretty," her face heats with embarrassment. Was this some new form of torture? Maybe Eli was just pulling her leg. "I'm the most... beautiful thing to exist. Everyone else is rubbish."
Eli taps her nose one final time before releasing her arm. "That's my girl. Now continue your ministrations."
She snorts out a laugh at his phrasing, and his face lights up in response.
"Mm, that too. You rarely laugh like that with me. I enjoy it—vastly preferable to that insufferable artificial smile you employ to vex me."
She groans, pressing the cool towel against his chest. "Honestly, Eli, I don't know if you'll recall any of this later, but do shut up. You're going to be mortified once this is over."
"Mortified?" He looks offended, storm grey eyes staring widely, "For what conceivable reason?"
"Just... stop talking. Please." Her voice comes out sharper than intended, emotions ping-ponging between shock, embarrassment, and maybe a pinch of an unwonted sort of anger. "You claimed you'd do anything for me, didn't you? So just sleep and get better, and revert to your usual self instead of spewing whatever flowery nonsense you're currently capable of."
He's confusing her, albeit unintentionally, and that's the worst part. Because somewhere in the rational corner of her mind, she recognizes these as Eli's unfiltered thoughts, and that's terrifying. His queen? His sweetheart? This from the man who spent the better part of their marriage alternating between ignoring her and barking orders like some despotic ruler? The audacity of it all makes her want to shake him.
Mae had never harbored romantic delusions about their arrangement. She'd accepted their marriage for what it was—a business transaction with excellent physical benefits and the bonus of escape from her family's toxicity. She'd even grown comfortable with their peculiar dynamic. But this? This felt like a violation of that careful balance.
"Hmm," Eli interrupts her internal crisis. "Kiss me. I promise to sleep after."
She takes a proper look at him then. The fever's transformed the impeccable Eli Parrish into something almost human. His sharp features are softened by a flush that spreads from his cheeks down his neck, those grey eyes now hazy with delirium. His platinum blond curls, usually styled to perfection, stick to his forehead in damp clusters. The predator was temporarily declawed, and she finds herself feeling a reluctant twinge of sympathy, even though logic dictates she owes him none.
So she leans forward and presses a kiss to his forehead, and true to his word, Eli's eyes flutter shut.
She continues her toweling as his breathing evens out into soft snores. Like everything else in her life, she packages away all thoughts of this strange interlude—Eli's declarations, her confusing reactions, the whole bloody mess of it. She's good at avoiding uncomfortable truths, after all. It's practically her superpower at this point.