The Last Time I Cried Your Name novel Chapter 93

Laura froze when Franco’s hand clamped tightly around hers. She looked at him, her eyes softening, and slowly squeezed his hand back.

“Franco…” she whispered.

He’d been burning up after getting his medicine that night. The fever just wouldn’t go away, and he’d slipped into a daze, barely responding to anyone. Jay and Galen had taken shifts trying to cool him down, but nothing seemed to help. By dawn, Galen had gone to crash for a bit in the next room, and Jay was in the bathroom fetching fresh water. Now, for the first time, Franco’s skin had started to sweat, a tiny sign that his fever was finally breaking, but he still hadn’t woken up.

Laura pulled the handkerchief from his hand and leaned forward in her wheelchair. She dabbed the sweat from his forehead, her movements gentle and careful.

The second the cloth touched his skin, Franco muttered, “I won’t agree.”

Laura’s breath caught.

He wasn’t awake. His lips were bloodless and pressed tight, his face tense, sweat pouring down his brow. He looked trapped, as if he were lost in some nightmare.

*Won’t agree…*

*Agree to what?*

She knew this couldn’t go on. She had to wake him.

“Franco. Franco!” Her voice trembled with worry.

His face only grew darker. Then, all at once, his eyes snapped open, black and intense, locking on her like he was seeing straight through her soul.

“Franco…” Laura tossed the cloth aside and grabbed his clammy, sweat-soaked hand with both of hers. “You scared me. Were you having a nightmare?”

Franco swallowed hard. For a moment, his eyes were unfocused. He closed them, pulled his hand away, and pressed it to his forehead, letting out a shaky breath.

“You’re drenched,” Laura said quietly. “Let me help you.” She picked up the handkerchief again.

Franco just looked away, his voice flat.

“Do what you want.”

A knock at the door broke the tension. Franco’s bodyguard poked his head in.

“Franco, Petty’s here.”

A strange silence fell over the room.

Laura frowned, picking up the bowl of plain porridge she’d just made. The bowl was almost too hot to hold, but she barely noticed. She glanced at Franco, searching his face for a reaction.

Before he could say a word, someone stepped through the door—a girl in a hospital gown, thin and pale, her hair pulled back in a low ponytail. She looked a little better than before, but there was still a tiredness in her eyes. The hint of weakness only made her beauty seem more delicate, almost heartbreakingly so. She was the kind of girl who made you want to protect her, but there was something about her that kept you at arm’s length.