Fire Beneath His Skin

Another red light.“Ilya?” Shane leans closer this time, brushing his knuckles lightly against Ilya’s jaw.“Where does it hurt?” His voice is tight, urgent. “Talk to me.”No answer.Ilya’s head has tipped toward the window again. His lashes rest against fever-flushed skin, cheeks burning red under the passing streetlights. His breathing is too shallow — each inhale catching faintly at the end like it hurts to pull air in.“Ilya?” Shane presses. “Hey. Tell me where it hurts.”Nothing. The silence slams into him.“Fuck—” His hand tightens on Ilya’s thigh. He gives it a firmer shake. “Fuck, fuck, fuck. No. Ilya. Hey.”

Ilya doesn’t get sick often.But when he does, it’s never small.Fever is the one thing that can kill him.He knows it. The doctors know it. The ER staff knows it.Shane doesn’t.And Ilya would like to keep it that way.