Darcy pushed back his chair so suddenly that the wooden legs scraped across the polished floor. His chest tightened at the sight of Micah leaning forward, hand covering his mouth, skin paling by the second. "Micah? What's the matter?" Darcy's voice broke with alarm as he hurried around the table, gripping Micah's wrist before tugging his hand away from his lips. "Is it because of that biscotti? How many did you have?" His forehead wrinkled as he searched Micah's face.
Darcy remembered how violently he had reacted to the biscotti earlier. Yes, he hated sweets, but maybe it hadn't been his dislike. Maybe they really were spoiled. And now, Micah was paying for it, pale and nauseated.
Seth stood up as well. "Let's go see a doctor," he said firmly, stepping toward them. He couldn't let the boy who had once saved his brother collapse in front of him.
