Bella's POV:
"What's wrong, Bella? Why did you get out of bed?"
I ignored his voice, clinging to the fraying edges of my own focus. My body felt weak, a treacherous betrayal that left me no choice. For now, whether I liked it or not, I had to rely on him.
The floorboards were cold beneath my bare feet, a stark contrast to the fire under my skin. Each step was a tremor, a silent plea for stability. I heard him move behind me, a shadow detaching itself from the wall. His presence was a wave of heat and vanilla, both a comfort and a provocation.
His hands found my waist, not with force, but with a steadying certainty that made my breath catch.
"Stubborn bunny,"
he murmured, his voice a low vibration against my back. "The world won't end if you let me help you."
But it would. My world, the one where I was in control, where I wasn't this aching, yearning creature, was already ending. And he was the one holding the match.
"Just… don't let me fall,"
I whispered, the admission tearing from me like a surrender. A low, approving rumble echoed from his chest.
"Never."
His arm tightened around me, a solid band of muscle that promised both shelter and captivity. My head spun, not from the fever this time, but from the dizzying contradiction of it all—the predator was my only pillar.
"I've got you," he repeated, his breath stirring the hair at my temple. He didn't ask again where I was going. He simply shifted, one hand splayed across my stomach to anchor me, the other moving to guide me forward. It was an intimacy that should have felt invasive, but in my weakened state, it felt like the only thing holding me together.
We took a slow step, then another. My legs trembled, threatening to buckle, but his support was unyielding. He was leading me, not back to the bedroom, but toward the kitchen. Toward the water he'd been pouring.
"The… glass,"
I managed, my throat parched.
"I know,"
was all he said.
And in that moment, I hated him a little less. I hated myself a little more for the wave of gratitude that washed through me. This was the true danger of Knox, not the chase or the threat, but this devastating, quiet competence that made reliance feel like a sanctuary.
He guided me back to the bed with an infuriating, effortless control, his hands firm yet careful as he settled me against the pillows. The moment he pulled away, a ridiculous, traitorous chill skated over my skin. The space he left behind felt vast and empty.
"Don't move."
The command was soft, but it was a command nonetheless. I watched him turn and disappear through the doorway, his footsteps retreating down the stairs. The silence he left in his wake was deafening, broken only by the frantic rhythm of my own heart.
He returned a moment later, a glass of water in one hand and the small, pathetic box of suprements from the pharmacy in the other. The sight of it was a stark reminder of my own powerlessness, and his futile, almost endearing attempt to combat it with something so mundane.
He placed the glass on the nightstand and tore open the box with a quiet efficiency that was entirely his own.
"Here," he said, his voice a low rumble as he shook two pills into his palm and offered them to me. His ultramarine eyes held mine, not with pity, but with a fierce, unwavering focus. "Take them."
It wasn't a request. It was the order of a man used to being obeyed, layered with the desperate plea of someone who had run through a storm for me. And for once, I had no fight left. My fingers brushed against his palm as I took the pills, and the brief contact sent a jolt straight to my core. I was in more trouble than I'd ever imagined. I hesitated, my gaze locked on the two small pills resting in his palm. They were a symbol of everything wrong, my weakness, his control, this unbearable heat. For a heartbeat, I considered slapping his hand away.
I never got the chance.
His movement was a blur of practiced precision. His other hand came up, his fingers gently but immovably capturing my chin. His thumb pressed down, and my lips parted on a silent gasp.
"Enough stalling, little bunny,"
he murmured, his voice dark velvet.
In one smooth motion, he brought his palm to my mouth, tipping the pills onto my tongue. The bitterness bloomed instantly, and I flinched. He didn't release me. Instead, he brought the glass of water to my lips, his gaze holding mine captive.
"Drink."
The command was soft, absolute. I had no choice but to obey, swallowing the pills and the bitter taste of my own submission with them. As the cool water washed it down, a different kind of heat flooded my cheeks, one of sheer, unadulterated humiliation, and a terrifying, thrilling shame.
He had won this round. And the most terrifying part was the flicker of relief that I no longer had to fight.