was she? She looked over at Sully. He cared deeply for her, she realized. Almost the way a father cared for a daughter. It brought tears to Mackenna’s eyes, and she managed a broken smile.
Before she could answer, the next cycle of the illness began in earnest. She barely heard Sully mutter something about malaria being erratic in its beginning stages. Mackenna groaned. Even the normal jungle noises seemed loud. Or was it because her head felt like a kettledrum being struck? The chills attacked with even more ferocity. She lay in a tight fetal curl inside the cocoon of damp blankets. Regardless of how many bedcovers Sully pressed around her body, her teeth chattered. Within fifteen minutes the chills had subsided and the vomiting had begun. She felt almost grateful when her temperature rose and she no longer felt the iciness that paralyzed her body. Mackenna lapsed into a delirious ranting, returning to the world of grief and loss, working out the remnants of her anguish one final time.
During her delirium Brock Hampton’s voice sliced through the whirling sounds cartwheeling through the tunnels of her mind. His voice was low and angry. “How like him,” she mumbled, “to be in a rage.” As if she could help being sick! Mackenna tossed from side to side, trying to throw off the blankets, burning up with fever. Rivulets of sweat streamed down her face. The coolness of a cloth being placed on her forehead momentarily soothed her. She cried out for water, the thirst parching her throat.
Mackenna felt herself being lifted, a cup being pressed to her lips. Water! A few cooling drops slipped from the corners of her mouth and ran down onto her neck, and they felt like heaven. She drank in huge gulps, unaware of exactly how much she consumed. Staring up at the dark, shadowed face above her, she wondered if her feverish mind was playing tricks on her. It was Brock Hampton. At her bedside? She managed a half-laugh, half-sob over the joke. His face was strained, a day’s worth of beard making him look even more sinister than usual. Despite his demeanor Mackenna saw through his dark facade, studying his narrowed eyes as they watched her every move. There was worry in them and—She blinked, aware suddenly of the deep sense of concern that radiated outward toward her.
Now he cradled her against his chest. She lay weakly within his embrace and closed her eyes. “Hell,” she murmured, “this has got to be hell….”
“You don’t know what hell is,” Brock growled, pressing her back on the pallet.
Mackenna felt incredibly weak, confused by his unexpected tenderness. She had not believed that Brock Hampton would deign to nurse another human being. Especially a female one. Especially now. She opened her eyes, focusing on his shadowed face. “I know what hell is,” she said hoarsely.
He sat back on his haunches, his eyes never leaving her face. “All you’ve done for the last couple of hours is cry. Is that all you ever do?”
She winced inwardly. Despite her body’s utter depletion, anger gave her strength. “Why are you here?” she said. “Are you gloating because I’m sick? You probably love to see a person down, don’t you?”
Hampton gave her an icy smile that told her nothing. He ignored her questions. “I sent Bevans off to take care of a few things. I came in his place.”
“Where’s Sully?”
“Asleep. He was up for thirty-six hours straight with you. I’ve got to admit you’ve got a loyal crew,” he said, a tinge of admiration in his voice. “Most crews hate their supers and couldn’t care less if they live or die.”
“I’m not most supers,” she snapped. “Quit putting me in those damn labeled boxes you think you know so much about!”
“Are you this cranky all the time?” he asked mildly, a glint of amusement in the depths of his eyes.
“When the occasion merits it, you bet. Why don’t you just get out of here? Or have you dropped by to tell me I’m fired because I had the bad
Before she could answer, the next cycle of the illness began in earnest. She barely heard Sully mutter something about malaria being erratic in its beginning stages. Mackenna groaned. Even the normal jungle noises seemed loud. Or was it because her head felt like a kettledrum being struck? The chills attacked with even more ferocity. She lay in a tight fetal curl inside the cocoon of damp blankets. Regardless of how many bedcovers Sully pressed around her body, her teeth chattered. Within fifteen minutes the chills had subsided and the vomiting had begun. She felt almost grateful when her temperature rose and she no longer felt the iciness that paralyzed her body. Mackenna lapsed into a delirious ranting, returning to the world of grief and loss, working out the remnants of her anguish one final time.
During her delirium Brock Hampton’s voice sliced through the whirling sounds cartwheeling through the tunnels of her mind. His voice was low and angry. “How like him,” she mumbled, “to be in a rage.” As if she could help being sick! Mackenna tossed from side to side, trying to throw off the blankets, burning up with fever. Rivulets of sweat streamed down her face. The coolness of a cloth being placed on her forehead momentarily soothed her. She cried out for water, the thirst parching her throat.
Mackenna felt herself being lifted, a cup being pressed to her lips. Water! A few cooling drops slipped from the corners of her mouth and ran down onto her neck, and they felt like heaven. She drank in huge gulps, unaware of exactly how much she consumed. Staring up at the dark, shadowed face above her, she wondered if her feverish mind was playing tricks on her. It was Brock Hampton. At her bedside? She managed a half-laugh, half-sob over the joke. His face was strained, a day’s worth of beard making him look even more sinister than usual. Despite his demeanor Mackenna saw through his dark facade, studying his narrowed eyes as they watched her every move. There was worry in them and—She blinked, aware suddenly of the deep sense of concern that radiated outward toward her.
Now he cradled her against his chest. She lay weakly within his embrace and closed her eyes. “Hell,” she murmured, “this has got to be hell….”
“You don’t know what hell is,” Brock growled, pressing her back on the pallet.
Mackenna felt incredibly weak, confused by his unexpected tenderness. She had not believed that Brock Hampton would deign to nurse another human being. Especially a female one. Especially now. She opened her eyes, focusing on his shadowed face. “I know what hell is,” she said hoarsely.
He sat back on his haunches, his eyes never leaving her face. “All you’ve done for the last couple of hours is cry. Is that all you ever do?”
She winced inwardly. Despite her body’s utter depletion, anger gave her strength. “Why are you here?” she said. “Are you gloating because I’m sick? You probably love to see a person down, don’t you?”
Hampton gave her an icy smile that told her nothing. He ignored her questions. “I sent Bevans off to take care of a few things. I came in his place.”
“Where’s Sully?”
“Asleep. He was up for thirty-six hours straight with you. I’ve got to admit you’ve got a loyal crew,” he said, a tinge of admiration in his voice. “Most crews hate their supers and couldn’t care less if they live or die.”
“I’m not most supers,” she snapped. “Quit putting me in those damn labeled boxes you think you know so much about!”
“Are you this cranky all the time?” he asked mildly, a glint of amusement in the depths of his eyes.
“When the occasion merits it, you bet. Why don’t you just get out of here? Or have you dropped by to tell me I’m fired because I had the bad
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