Dylan held the basin for her, one hand pulling her hair back while still trying to rub her back in slow circles.
Anastasia waited for the surge to come, but it never did. She sat there, uncomfortable and confused. The cold had never made her sick before, but she figured this was just the physical weight of the fear, the memory of Matteo shooting her father, and the agonizing wonder of whether he was still alive or buried in a grave she would never find nor be able to visit.
She leaned back against the headboard, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.
"Are you sure you don't want me to call a doctor?" Dylan persisted.
Anastasia shook her head. "They are watching, Dylan. They are definitely watching every person who comes in and out of this house."
"You think he would actually come if he found out you were sick?" Dylan asked.
