Chapter 12

Everlee

Sitting back on my heels, I look down at the man who's totally upended my life, but also saved it. I hate Wild Man for many reasons. All of them are valid. He's held me captive. He's raped me multiple times. He keeps me tied to him or a tree so I can't get away. He's threatened to kill my family. He doesn't allow me to wear clothes. And he's turned my body against me.

All of those reasons should have me rejoicing in the fact that he's currently lying in his bed, dying. He's so weak right now that I could easily leave him. It would take me time to figure out the knot on the rope or find something sharp to cut it—because of course, even after being bitten by a venomous snake, he still made sure to tie the other end of the rope around his wrist before he fell onto the pile of blankets in his tree hut—but from the look of Wild Man, I've got all the time in the world now.

So why am I sitting here by his side, wiping away the dampness from his forehead that never seems to go away. I should be picking at the knot or finding something I can use to saw through it.

I'm an idiot, that's why.

Within an hour of getting back to the tree hut, the symptoms started. His breathing became labored and a fine sheen of sweat coated his forehead. The site of the wound is an angry red and is swelling. I look at the two holes now and notice several blisters forming.

I check the pulse in his wrist, and I don't know if I should be alarmed or relieved to feel a rapid beat.

Tears cling to my lashes as I stare down at him. He fell asleep a bit ago. His cheeks are flush and he's warm to the touch.

As much as I hate him, the thought of him dying tears jagged holes through my heart. I don't want him to die. I want him to let me go, but not at the expense of his life.

I pick up the piece of cloth I've been using to wipe his face and chest and dip it in the clay bowl holding water. Thankfully, the rope attaching us together is long, so I'm able to move around the tree hut.

While he laid in bed, soft grunts of pain leaving his dried lips, I left him long enough to search for supplies. I found a few decently clean pieces of cloth and another jug of water. I cleaned the wounds with the water and cloth as best as I could, but I don't know if it's enough. I don't think it matters anyway. Water and a questionably clean cloth isn't enough to fight sepsis and necrosis.

"You're so fucking stupid for doing that," I mutter past the thick clog in my throat.

Wild Man groans, but otherwise doesn't move or open his eyes.

I run the rag over his forehead and across his cheeks, wiping away the sweat that will only be replaced with more in a few moments. His breathing is labored and rattily, like he's sick with pneumonia. If only his illness was that simple.

I rinse and rewet the rag with fresh water and start washing down his neck and over his collarbones.

"Why can't I hate you like I'm supposed to?" I ask the silent man. "You've taken so much from me. I have every right to want you dead."

The hard muscles below the rag don't so much as twitch when I move it to his chest. Despite the dire situation, I can't help but appreciate the hard planes and deep valleys of his pecs.

"But I don't," I continue quietly, like I'm afraid some other person may hear my confession. "You make me so angry sometimes that I want to stab your eyes with rusty knives and cut off your hands with a dull blade, but I don't want you to die." I choke on the last word. A tear drops from my chin, landing on his chest right over his heart, and I wipe it away with the rag.

I move the cloth down his stomach, my eyes tracing each inch of skin that I wash. I linger on the two slash marks on his lower stomach, and once again, my curiosity piques. Sorrow fills my stomach when I think about everything this man must have gone through since he was a child. There are so many stories he could tell me.

But now those stories will die with him. No one will ever know how one, small brave five-year-old boy managed to survive in the wilderness all by himself.

Using the back of my hand, I wipe away another tear before it has a chance to fall.

Once I'm done with Wild Man's chest, I run the rag over his face and neck one more time. I'm barely managing to hold onto my emotions and exhaustion has hit with the effort. I drop the rag in the bowl and curl on my side beside Wild Man with my hands tucked under my cheek. I keep my eyes on the side of his face until I can't keep them open anymore.

* * *

No matterhow tired I am, I can't fall into a deep sleep. I'm terrified I'm going to wake up and find that Wild Man is dead. Each time I open my eyes to check on him, he's in the same position and his breathing and pulse are just as erratic as the last time. I wipe him down with the rag several more times, having no idea if it's helping him at all.

It's been hours since we made it back to his tree hut, and he hasn't opened his eyes since he closed them.

I peel back the cloth covering the puncture wounds and find the blisters have grown in size. The swollen skin around the holes have turned to a deeper shade of red.

I get up and dump out the water from the bowl then pour in fresh water. Using a part of the cloth, I gently wipe around the edges of the wounds, trying to keep them as clean as possible.

I know my efforts are in vain. The chances of Wild Man surviving a rattlesnake bite are very slim, but if there's even a minuscule chance, I have to take it.

I clean his face and chest again before I lay back down beside him. All I can do is wait and try to make him as comfortable as possible.

So, that's what I do.

* * *

For three days,I stay vigilant in caring for Wild Man. Cleaning his wounds, keeping him as cool as I can by frequently running a cloth over most of his body, and dribbling water past his dry and cracked lips. He sleeps, his breathing labored, and his heart racing.

I pray more than I ever have, hoping that by some miracle my efforts aren't wasted.

I've lain beside him and tried to sleep, but each time I drift off, I jolt awake. I've become intimately acquainted with fear. It's what I feel each time I check on Wild Man.

On the fourth night, I don't know how I manage it, but I must have fallen into a deep sleep. One filled with deadly snakes and wild animals screaming into the night. I'm naked, running in the forest, the rough ground slicing into my feet. I open my mouth to scream, but no sound comes out. I look behind me and see a huge snake, taller than me and the size of a tree trunk, with his mouth wide open. His huge fangs glow a bright white in the moonlight and they drip with bright yellow venom. All around me, I hear the howls of coyotes and the growls of wolves.

Just as the snake strikes forward, my eyes snap open.

At first, I'm disoriented because everything is dark, so dark that it feels like I'm still in my dream. I open my mouth to let out a scream, but immediately snap it shut when something above me moves. Not something, but someone.

Wild Man hovers above me, his face only inches away from mine.

"Wild Man," I croak.

"Momor."

His voice sounds weak and scratchy, and I have no idea what he just said.

I lift my hands and lay them on his chest, pushing him back. It doesn't take much effort to get him to lie back down, which goes to show just how weak he really is.

I get to my knees so I can look at him. I can't see that well in the dark, but thankfully, there's enough moonlight that shines through the trees to offer me a glimpse of his face. His cheeks and forehead still glisten with sweat, but not as much as before. I press a hand against his chest and a wave of relief hits when I don't encounter the heat or a rapid heartbeat.

"How do you feel?" I ask, scooting on my knees closer to him.

His answer really isn't an answer, just a grunt. I hold the jug of water to his lips and help lift his head so he can take a sip. He swallows and a trickle slides out the corner of his mouth. I set it aside and put my hand back on his chest.

"Are you in pain?"

He places his hand over mine. "Stay."

My heart knocks around behind my sternum. Does he want me to stay because I'm caring for him and he doesn't want to die alone, or is it because he simply wants me to stay?

My internal question is stupid. He's made it his mission to let me know that I belong to him.

The answer doesn't matter anyway. Regardless of the reason behind his demand. I'm obviously not going anywhere. At least, not until he's better. If he gets better, my mind whispers.

Of course he's going to get better. Him being awake and coherent is a good sign, right?

Please let that be true.

"I'll stay," I say, not adding the for now part at the end. That's another day's problem.

He blinks at me, like he's unsure whether to believe me or not.

"Sleep," I tell him. "You need to rest."

Using his good arm, he reaches up and wraps his fingers around my neck. His grip is surprisingly strong given his weakened state as he pulls me down beside him. He maneuvers my head, so it's lying on his chest and I'm plastered against his side. I want to protest, afraid of making him uncomfortable, but decide, for once, to let him do what he wants.

I close my eyes and let the sound of his steady heartbeat lull me into sleep.