Revenge Wears My Ring novel Chapter 116

“Don’t move.”

The low, commanding voice cut through the haze—familiar and oddly comforting.

It was Bennett.

Gwyneth’s muddled mind struggled to make sense of reality.

Why was he in her room?

What had happened to her?

“You have a fever.” Bennett’s voice came again, less icy than usual, taut with a subtle tension she almost missed.

A fever?

No wonder every muscle ached and her head throbbed like it was splitting open. No wonder her dreams had been so feverish and wild.

She wanted to say something, to ask why he was here.

But her eyelids felt impossibly heavy, as if glued shut, and her consciousness slipped away, drifting beyond reach like a severed kite.

Just before she lost herself to the darkness, she felt the cool touch of a hand gently brushing across her burning forehead.

———

When Gwyneth woke again, daylight flooded the bedroom.

Blinding sunlight sliced through the thick curtains, casting a harsh stripe of light across the floor.

She blinked her gritty eyes, adjusting to the brightness. The headache and aches had faded, leaving her weak but no longer burning up as if set alight.

Her hand instinctively reached for the edge of the bed. No one was there.

Bennett had already left.

Yet the evidence of his presence lingered: a few towels, still damp and tossed haphazardly on the nightstand, a glass half-full of water, and the faint trace of his crisp, clean scent in the air. Proof enough that last night hadn’t been a fever dream.

He…had stayed to care for her through the night?

Her emotions tangled into a knot she couldn’t begin to unravel.

She reached up, touching her own forehead. Cool now—the fever had truly broken.

Propping herself up, she leaned against the headboard, her gaze drifting to the window, where the sunlight was almost painfully bright.

The light was so fierce, slicing ruthlessly through glass and banishing every last shadow.

It reminded her of the fire in her feverish dream—a blaze that swallowed everything in its path.

The thought made her chest tighten.

Her mind was a tangle of worries and questions.

Gwyneth pushed back the covers and set her bare feet on the cool floor.

Though her body still felt drained, something stronger—an ache for answers—pulled her forward. She walked to the window, drawing the curtains wide.

Sunlight poured in, enveloping her in its harsh, brilliant glow.

She squinted, looking out at a world bursting with life, but touched by a brightness that bordered on merciless.

She walked to the kitchen and lifted the lid from the simmering pot. Inside, a rich, creamy chicken broth awaited, dotted with a few bright berries for a hint of color.

She ladled herself a small bowl. The savory warmth slid down her throat, carrying just the right balance of salt and subtle herbal sweetness, soothing her empty stomach and weary body.

Delicious.

The word floated through her mind, bringing an unfamiliar sense of warmth before being swept away by more complicated feelings.

It felt good to be cared for—but she didn’t dare get used to it.

She finished the soup quietly.

Setting her bowl aside, Gwyneth grabbed her handbag from the entryway, ready to go.

“Didn’t you just have a fever?” Bennett’s voice called out again, unmistakably disapproving.

He’d set his papers aside, his gaze fixed steadily on her, sharp-eyed and seeing right through the fragile calm she wore.

“Why are you going out?”

Gwyneth turned to meet his eyes.

With sunlight streaming in, she could see that flicker of concern buried deep beneath his stoic expression.

Or was it something else?

She didn’t want to dig too deep. She just answered, her voice calm and even:

“I’m feeling much better. I’m going to the cemetery.”