The voice wasn’t back, but she still felt strange. Her mom had decided to take her to the hospital after her fever refused to go down.
Amara lay on the hospital bed, the thin white sheets sticking to her burning skin, but all she could think about—all she could ever think about—was him.
His mouth. His taste. His hands. His fingers.
What was this feeling?
It was torture, the kind that left her breathless, the kind that made her want to both scream and melt into it. Maybe it was Leo’s way of punishing her, driving her wild because of what she’d done with Adrian. But God, if it was punishment, it was the kind she’d been dreaming of.
The door creaked open, and Becky slipped in with that chaotic energy that always announced her presence before her voice did.
“Good thing you aren’t dead,”
