The Devil’s Bride

Chapter 16: Fevered Tenderness

Moore’s POV

The fever had turned my body into a burning mess.

Every single inch of my skin scorched as if lit from within by a wildfire, yet violent shivers wracked my frame, making my teeth chatter uncontrollably against one another. Sweat poured down my temples, soaking my hair and the black silk pillow beneath my head. The fresh tattoo on my lower abdomen pulsed with a deep, fiery agony that synced perfectly with my racing heartbeat. Each breath felt incredibly labored and heavy, as if my lungs were filled with thick smoke.

I curled tighter into a fetal position on the massive mattress, the silk sheets twisted and damp around my naked body. The luxurious master bedroom that had once felt like an elite prison now felt like a tomb slowly closing in on me. The air was thick with the metallic tang of my own sweat and the faint, clinical scent of the bitter medicine Ethan had forced down my throat hours earlier.

My internal thoughts were barely a whisper in my fevered mind now. Fading. Fragile. Completely meaningless in the face of this all-consuming heat and raw physical pain.

The heavy door opened with a sharp click.

Ethan stood in the framework like a dark, tyrannical god—tall, immaculate in his tailored black suit, every line of his powerful body radiating cold, absolute control. His sharp eyes swept over my shivering, sweat-drenched form. For the briefest of a second, something volatile flickered across his face—an intense irritation mixed with something much darker, completely possessive. It vanished instantly, replaced by a mask of cold disdain.

“Pathetic,” he muttered, his voice low and cutting right through the heavy silence of the room. “You really can’t handle anything, can you?”

He didn’t wait for an answer I couldn’t give. He pulled out his phone, his fingers moving swiftly across the screen. “Nina. Master bedroom. Immediately. Bring ice water, fresh linens, and the medical kit.”

Minutes later, the young maid entered quietly, her shoulders instinctively hunched in fear. When her eyes landed on my ruined state, genuine worry broke through her mask. She dropped to her knees beside the edge of the mattress, reaching out a trembling hand to press against my burning forehead.

“Madam Moore… you’re burning up,” she whispered, her voice thick with panic. “You’re soaked completely through. Sir, she needs a proper doctor. This fever is far too high for standard medication—”

“Step back.” Ethan’s voice sliced through the air like a razor blade.

Nina recoiled as if she had been physically burned, instantly snatching her hand away. She bowed her head, her small body trembling.

“I did not ask for your medical opinion,” Ethan said, his tone dropping into a dangerously quiet register. “Leave the supplies on the table. And get lost. No one comes near this wing tonight.”

“But sir, the sheets—”

“I said, get lost,” he snarled, stepping directly into her personal space. The sheer aura of unchecked power and violence radiating from his frame was suffocating. “No one enters this room tonight. If I see your face anywhere near this door before morning, you’re finished.Do you understand me?”

Nina cast one last look of pure sympathy at me—a silent, helpless lifeline in this freezing house—before whispering, “Yes, sir,” and rushing out into the corridor.

The heavy door clicked shut. The silence returned, heavier and more oppressive than before.

Ethan turned his full, undivided attention to me. I fully expected him to call for someone else. A private doctor. Another high-ranking servant. A narcissistic, proud man like him shouldn't lower himself to tend to raw sickness, sweat, and vulnerability. Yet, he stayed.

He gripped my jaw firmly with one hand, forcing two pills between my dry lips, then tilted a glass of ice-cold water against my mouth. Liquid spilled messily down my chin and throat, but his iron grip kept me from choking on it. “Swallow,” he commanded.

I obeyed weakly, coughing roughly as the liquid went down.

For the next several hours, Ethan remained by my side.

He stripped the damp, sweat-soaked sheets away with impatient, high movements, his long fingers occasionally brushing against my overheated skin. The cool air hit my naked body like ice, making me shiver even harder. He replaced them with fresh, dry linens, tucking them around my frame with a rough efficiency. When my fever spiked again and I began muttering incoherently, he dipped a cloth in the basin of ice water and firmly pressed it against my forehead, my neck, and the slope of my chest.

His touch was not gentle. It was firm. Indulgent only of his own accord . He looked intensely irritated, as if tending to me were an annoying necessity rather than an act of care. Yet, he didn’t leave. He didn’t delegate the task to anyone else.

“You’re a f*****g inconvenience, Moore,” he muttered under his breath, his eyes fixed on the cloth as he wiped the sweat from my collarbone.

I whimpered softly as another violent wave of chills hit my nervous system. My teeth chattered loudly in the quiet room. Ethan cursed under his breath, then climbed onto the mattress beside me. He roughly pulled my fevered, trembling body directly against his broad chest, one heavy arm wrapping around me possessively while his free hand continued pressing the cool cloth to my burning skin.

His suit jacket was gone now, his expensive white shirt slightly rumpled. The steady, rhythmic beat of his heart thrummed against my cheek—strong, controlled, and infuriatingly steady while my own raced wildly.

I wanted to pull away from him. I wanted to beg him to leave me to rot in peace. But the intense coolness of his body against my burning skin brought a reluctant, desperate relief. I hated how good it felt. I hated how my broken mind instinctively leaned into his warmth even as fear coiled tightly in my stomach.

“You don’t get to escape me by getting sick, Moore,” he whispered fiercely against my ear, his breath hot on my fevered skin. His fingers gripped my chin, forcing my hazy, unfocused gaze to meet his cold eyes. “Every mark on this skin. Every breath you take. Every pathetic shiver. It all belongs to me. Don’t you ever forget that.”

Tears slipped silently down my cheeks, mixing with the cold sweat. I wanted to scream at him, to tell him how much I utterly loathed him. How terrified I was of his touch. How confusing his closeness felt. But the words wouldn’t form. Only weak, broken sounds escaped my throat.

Ethan continued his tireless tending throughout the long, dark night. He changed the cloth on my forehead again and again. He made me drink water, holding my head up with his palm when I was entirely too weak to manage it myself. When my shivering became dangerously violent, he pulled the heavy blanket tighter around us, his large hand resting heavily on my hip—careful to avoid the fresh, angry red ink of his initials etched into my lower abdomen.

The silence between us was thick, broken only by my ragged breathing and his occasional irritated curses.

Hours blurred together into a seamless haze. At some point in the deepest, quietest part of the night, the fever finally began to ease slightly. I lay completely limp against his chest, exhausted beyond measure, my body still trembling faintly.

Ethan’s hand stroked slowly, down my bare back—not soft, not affectionate, but steady. Intensely possessive. As if reminding both of us that I was his possession , even in this shattered state.

“You’re mine,” he said quietly into the darkness, his voice dropping so low it sounded as if he were speaking only to himself. “Even when you’re like this. Especially when you’re like this.”

I drifted in and out of consciousness.

But as the long night stretched on, with Ethan’s unyielding arms locked around my cooling body, one terrifying, horrific realization settled deep in my chest.

His cruelty was familiar. It was predictable. I knew how to survive his anger.

But this version of him—irritated, deeply controlling, yet refusing to let anyone else witness or handle my weakness—was far more dangerous to my survival.

Because it made a small, shattered part of my heart wonder if the monster was actually starting to care.

And that single thought scared me far more than any brand or physical punishment ever could.