*Stephan*
My arm is dead. Yet I won't move because to do so would be to awaken her.
She is in a precarious position much worse than a kiss in a garden. She is in my bed, her head nestled on my shoulder, and although I can't quite feel it, I know my arm is holding her near. It doesn't matter that she's fully clothed.
She's in my bed. And her scent is weaving around me, enticing my Wolf.
How long has she been here? How long has the fever raged? My side aches, feels tender. I remember fleeting images: the physician, Raphael. Tristan. Briefly. Once. Don't you dare leave me again. Or was that a dream? Mary. Cool water trickling down my throat. Cool cloth on my brow. Gentle reassurances, soft voice. Mary's voice. Always Mary. Tender touches. Mary. Encouragement. Mary. Awful-tasting broth. Ma
