CHAPTER TWENTY
ZADE
I don't know how to do this.
I've spent my life mastering the art of destruction—breaking down opponents, dismantling supply chains, and freezing out anyone who got too close.
But taking care of someone? Caring for a person who has been nothing but a constant, irritating thorn in my side? That wasn't in the curriculum.
When she was talking to me earlier, her eyes blinking rapidly as she searched my face through the feverish haze, a painful realization settled in my chest.
This is a dangerous game.
For the first time in my life, I'm looking at a board where I might actually lose.
I wipe her face one last time as her breathing finally evens out into a deep sleep.
It's a mercy that Ms. Cox provided the medication for the fever; I'm not in the mood to deal with an ER waiting room tonight.
I place the cool, damp cloth carefully across her forehead. Just as I pull my hand away, my phone buzzes, vibrating against my thigh like an accusation.
My mother.
For a moment, I consider letting it go to voicemail.
The last thing I need is her intuition picking up on the chaos in my penthouse.
But I pick it up anyway; she doesn't need the added stress of wondering where I've disappeared to.
"Zade, where are you?" she whispers-yells into the receiver.
"I'm at the penthouse, Mom," I say, stepping away from the bed.
I walk toward the floor-to-ceiling windows, staring out at the velvet night above and the sprawling, neon veins of the city beneath me.
"I just... I wanted some time alone."
"At least you could have told me," she sighs.
My mother has always been the bridge between my father and me.
It's not that my relationship with him is bad, but it isn't ideal either. It hasn't been ideal since the house went silent—since the day we lost my sister.
"Did you have your dinner?" she asks, her voice softening into that maternal rhythm I can't quite escape.
"Yes, Mom. I did. I'll call you tomorrow, I promise."
I end the call before she can ask anything else. I turn back toward the room.
The flush of the fever is finally beginning to recede from Alice's face.
I remember the look on Marcus's face back at the infirmary.
I had to fight that motherfucker just to get her here.
He had the audacity to say he would take her with him.
The thought of him alone with her—watching her while she was slipping in and out of consciousness—made my blood boil.
It was a visceral, violent reaction that I have no business feeling.
Marcus only backed down once Ms. Cox intervened.
Mio had insisted on coming along to change Alice's clothes into something more comfortable, and she'd even ordered a takeout for me before she left.
Even when she's in a murderous mood, Mio still manages to care for me.
It's a loyalty I don't always feel I deserve.
I walk back toward the bed. I'm exhausted, my muscles aching with a fatigue that goes deeper than just a long day.
I need sleep, but I can't exactly crawl in next to her.
I settle onto the couch.
It's a designer piece that cost more than a mid-sized sedan, but it's too fucking small for a man of my size.
I contemplate the situation for a moment. Technically, this is my bed.
I could move her to the couch and take the mattress for myself.
But I won't.
First, she's unconscious and would probably roll off the couch and die.
Second, despite what the world thinks, I have enough manners to know a lady should have the bed.
Even if, in this case, the lady is a Witch who is currently haunting my every thought.
I close my eyes, the silhouette of the skyline the last thing I see before the darkness takes me, too.