Chapter 560
Chapter 560:
I pulled on the dry clothes quickly, then sat back on the straw-strewn ground and leaned towards the opening. The rain showed no sign of letting up. Even in fresh, dry clothes, the damp night air crept relentlessly into my bones. I hugged my arms to myself and rubbed them for warmth.
As I drew my legs back, I accidentally kicked Ashton.
He didn’t stir.
My thoughts drifted as I studied his face.
It was flushed. His chest rose and fell in an unsteady rhythm. Sleeping in this stifling hut, he must have felt hot.
Wait. Hot?
At that moment, another gust of cold wind blew through, and my teeth chattered before I could stop them. I gritted my teeth, shuffled a little closer to him, then leaned in until our faces were only a finger’s width apart. Bending down, I whispered by his ear, “Ashton?” Nothing.
I tried again a few more times, but he didn’t stir.
Outside, the rain had gone from heavy to torrential, drumming against the bark walls of the hut and pelting my back.
My whole back was soaked through.
But I had no time to change. My eyes stayed fixed on Ashton.
Something was wrong.
He was never such a deep sleeper, not even with the storm hammering down. I reached out and touched him, only to recoil at how scalding hot his skin was.
Panic gripped me.
Ashton had a fever.
I dragged him with difficulty to a haystack further from the door and pulled off his wet shoes. Then, I wrestled his rain-soaked T-shirt over his head and tossed it aside. Digging through the suitcase, I found my largest T-shirt and slipped it on him.
The rain grew fiercer, and the grass curtain at the doorway provided no defense at all. I sat with my back to the entrance, shielding him as best I could from the lashing wind and water.
𝗦𝗲𝗲 𝗺𝗼𝗿𝗲 𝗰𝗵𝗮𝗽𝘁𝗲𝗿𝘀 𝗮𝘁 gⲁ𝗅𝗇𝗈ν𝖊𝗅𝘀⍰𝖼𝗈𝗺
His trousers were drenched too. I unzipped them and tugged them off, rolling them into a heap. He couldn’t fit into mine, so I pulled one of my long skirts over him instead. What he would think when he woke to find himself in it, I didn’t have time to imagine.
Just then, a low groan escaped him. His eyes stayed shut, but sweat broke out across his brow, and his expression twisted with pain. I searched his body for injuries I might have missed. And then, I saw it.
His right hand trembled violently, still covered by a diving glove. I recalled once asking him why he always kept it on. He had said it made work easier. It seemed reasonable enough at the time, so I hadn’t questioned it.
But now…
My breath caught as I reached for his gloved hand. Unconscious and unable to resist, he didn’t react as I peeled the glove off with ease. When it came free, I pressed my hand over my mouth to stifle a cry.
His right hand.
The palm was split by a raw, unhealed gash. The whole hand was swollen, red, and consumed by infection. It was barely recognizable as a hand at all. The wound had festered for days, rotting until it had reached this point.
My chest tightened with worry, but another question gnawed at me. When had he hurt himself? What had caused this?