"Did the fever turn you stupid?" His baritone voice cut through her daze, sharp and cool, as though he could sense her thoughts and found them laughable.
Cassandra blinked. That was the first thing he said to her? Not 'are you alright', not 'rest'. Just that.
Her lips curved faintly, hiding the sting in her chest. "…Big Brother, when did you return? I thought I was dreaming." Her voice was soft, almost fragile, but her eyes glimmered with an affection she couldn't smother. Even in weakness, her gaze sought him, clung to him.
Theodore frowned at her words. Instead of replying, he stood and walked away with a controlled grace that sent a shiver through her. At her desk, he picked up a dagger. Not merely picked it up—handled it with the ease of a man who could end lives with it before she blinked. He twirled the blade in long, sculpted fingers as he returned to her bedside.
Cassandra's body stiffened beneath the covers. Her fever made her limbs weak, but her instincts screamed danger. Her smile faltered, her gaze fixed warily on the knife.
Still, she forced herself to speak, her voice hoarse but steady. "Were you… taking care of me? First Madame said I had to stay locked in here until you came back. I thought…" Her throat tightened, and she added softly, "…I thought I might die before seeing you again."
Her words hung in the air, heavy with double meaning. On one hand, they sounded like the desperate yearning of a little sister. On the other, like the calculated plea of someone who knew her survival hinged on this man's whim.
Theodore didn't answer immediately. He simply spun the dagger once more, its glint reflecting in his unreadable eyes, before lowering it with a casual flick of his wrist. His gaze swept over her—cold, piercing, and yet strangely… unsettled.
Cassandra's smile wavered. What is he thinking? Does he want to protect me—or carve me apart for shaming the family?
Because in the Bolton House, affection and cruelty often came dressed in the same face.
And Theodore Bolton was the most dangerous face of all.
But Cassandra Bolton realized how wrong she was the moment her weak body was scooped up—no, hauled up—by Theodore Bolton with a single arm, like she was nothing more than a sack of dirty laundry.
Before she could even make sense of what was happening, she was ungracefully flung into the gigantic marble bathtub with all the gentleness one might give to tossing out the trash.
SPLASH!
Her jaw nearly hit the bath tiles.
"So dirty. Wash yourself clean," Theodore said flatly, his voice laced with disgust as his hawk-like eyes swept over her sweat-soaked hair, her clammy skin, and the blood-stained dress plastered against her body.
Cassandra Bolton sat there, dripping wet, stunned into silence.
"…."
He's insane. Completely insane.
Why, oh why, did her dream of having a doting big brother turn into this nightmare? In her fantasies, her brother was supposed to wipe her tears, feed her porridge, and protect her from the monsters of the world.
Reality? He called her dirty, threw her into the bath like rotten cabbage, and was now watching her like she was a particularly disgusting bug that had crawled into his house.
Sure, she hadn't bathed in two days. Sure, she smelled like boiled socks. But still—!!!
Her teeth gnashed in fury. The nerve! The humiliation! The sheer audacity of this man who shared her blood!
And yet… the warm water crept into her aching bones, soothing her fevered body, and she couldn't stop the reluctant sigh of relief that slipped past her lips. Damn it. Why did it have to feel this good?
At the doorway, Theodore stood with arms folded, one hand lazily spinning a dagger between his long, elegant fingers as though he had all the time in the world. His cold eyes never left her.