Episode Four This Isn’t the Flu

S hanna

Usually the tat hurts far worse than the shot. This time, not so much. The injection site is killing me. I try not to focus on it as I clean the house.

In the good old days, like a couple of years ago, a maid came in twice a month. Now that women aren't allowed to work, all the cleaning falls to little old me. And the cooking. I roll my eyes.

I hate to cook, and Alex is so much better at it than me. But the guys are out working all day. It only makes sense for me to have a meal ready for them when they get home.

I allow my thoughts to drift back to this morning. That's a much better thing to focus on than the sad state of our planet.

As awful as so many things are in life, our poly relationship is a ray of sunshine in the middle of the gloom. Our foursome just kind of happened, but instead of pulling Alex and me apart, our relationship is stronger than ever. We've doubled the love we had, which was pretty spectacular to begin with.

Just sweeping the kitchen floor is tiring me out. I made myself a piece of toast half an hour ago, but it's done nothing to calm my queasy stomach. I'll just lie down for a while and make a quick salad for dinner when I wake up.

" M otherfucker," Ro says before he even shuts the front door behind him. "Sick. Tired." He sighs as he pulls off his clothes and lets them fall to the floor. He joins me in bed, the mattress dipping as he practically falls onto it. "Motherfucker," he repeats as if saying it once wasn't enough.

"What's wrong?" I ask. When I open my eyes, I have to pry them apart. My lashes are matted together. What was in that shot?

"Feel so bad," he says, snuggling closer. "Practically the whole station asked for sick leave about two hours after we got our shots. I hung in long enough to show up for work at the vaccination center, but after vomiting twice, I had to leave. I feel like a truck hit me."

"Poor baby," I say.

When I turn on my hip, I see he's got it way worse than me. He looks like shit. His skin coloring is mottled gray, and he keeps scrunching his face as if he's in pain.

In the feel-like-shit contest, Roman wins hands down, so I offer, "Need anything? Water? Food?"

That he asks for something is a testament to how terrible he feels. This is one macho man. He'd never ask for help if he wasn't in a world of hurt.

"Would you, babe? Would you bring me water? And maybe some crackers? Cheese? I'm starving, but I'm not hungry. If that makes sense."

"I'd kiss you, but if you feel half as bad as you look, I want no part of it." I haul myself out of bed and head to the kitchen.

Just when he's sipped some water, nibbled a few crackers, and fallen back onto the bed as though eating and drinking was the hardest thing he's ever done, I hear the front door open and close. It's only three in the afternoon. Did one of the other guys get off early?

Chaska stands in the bedroom doorway, his powerful frame taking up almost the entire width, with his hands head-height on the jambs.

"You too?" he asks. "Both of you?"

It's a good thing he's holding onto the door frame because he sways a bit as he takes a long blink.

"Lay down," I say, my voice stern. "What can I get you?"

I help him shuck his clothes, then head to the kitchen to grab him a bottle of water and some crackers.

"Bring an empty pot. I think I might hurl," he calls.

After they're both sleeping, I join them in bed, fully expecting my favorite attorney to join us before long.

Sure enough, the front door closes with a bang shortly after I drift back to sleep.

"Shan!"

He must have it bad. His voice is rough, and he's reduced to monosyllables.

When he enters the room, I can't control my shriek. I've never been the type to scream when I see a bug or a mouse, but certainly anyone would wail when their lawfully wedded husband walks through the doorway, his furred ears looking like they belong on a wolf.