Riven lay on the bed alone, his body slick with sweat. The sheets stuck to his skin, damp and suffocating. He dragged in a breath that rattled in his lungs, and he tried to push himself up onto an elbow. His arms trembled under the effort, and for a moment, he thought he might collapse right back down.
He hated this.
Gods, he hated this so much.
It felt like this was becoming his life—just endless cycles of sickness, fever, and weakness. When had it started? It was well before the battle between Ronan and Leon. It started with sickness from experiencing separation from his mate.
Pathetic, he thought, gritting his teeth.
He was always here, wasn't he? In bed, helpless, waiting for someone else to come and rescue him. If he wasn't in a coma, he was sweating through the sheets, burning with some fever he couldn't fight off on his own. He knew he should be grateful—so many people cared enough to look after him—but he couldn't help the ugly frustration that crawled up his throat.
