Chapter 6 - Fever in the Night
When I burst through the door of the log cabin, the serene calm of the morning had vanished, replaced by an atmosphere of urgent anxiety.
Maren was sitting on the living room floor, rocking ten-month-old Leo in her arms. The baby’s skin was flushed bright red, his small body shivering despite being wrapped in a warm blanket. He was crying in thin, exhausted whimpers. Clara was in her swing, sleeping quietly, while Ethan sat nearby, looking bewildered by his twin’s distress.
"What happened?" I asked, dropping my coat on a chair and instantly kneeling beside Maren.
"His fever spiked to 103 ten minutes ago," Maren said, her voice tight with panic. "He's been sick off and on for months... living in those damp shelters... I thought it was just a cold, but his breathing is getting shallow!"
I reached out and gently touched Leo's forehead. He was burning hot. The moment my hand touched his cheek, his tiny, tear-streaked face turned toward my palm, his little fingers feebly grasping my thumb.
"Daddy..." he wheezed, a barely audible, broken sound.
A spear of guilt drove deep into my chest. While I was living in luxury, drinking fine wine and attending charity galas, my son was developing chronic respiratory infections in damp homeless shelters because I had starved them of resources.
"Marcus!" I shouted over my shoulder. "Get the medical kit from the SUV! Call Dr. Harrison—tell him to prepare the private pediatric unit at St. Luke’s immediately!"
"No hospitals!" Maren gasped, her eyes wide with sudden terror, clutching Leo closer to her chest. "Rowan, no! That’s how they took Clara! What if Julian’s people are watching the hospitals?"
I took Maren’s hands in mine. Her skin was icy cold compared to the burning heat of our son.
"Maren, look at me," I said, holding her gaze with absolute intensity. "Julian Whitmore is in federal custody. Tessa is behind bars. The Whitmore network has been dismantled. But more importantly, I swear to you on my life, no one will ever touch our children again. I have my own private security team securing the entire hospital floor. You and I will not leave his side for a single second."
Maren stared into my eyes, searching for any trace of the cold, arrogant man who had abandoned her a year ago. She saw only desperate, terrified love.
She slowly nodded. "Okay. Okay. Take us there."
Fifteen minutes later, our convoy broke every traffic law in the city, speeding toward St. Luke’s Medical Center with siren escorts provided by Marcus’s team.
When we arrived, a specialized team of pediatric specialists met us at the private entrance. Leo was whisked into an intensive care room, with Maren and me right behind them.
For four agonizing hours, we stood shoulder-to-shoulder by the stainless-steel examination bed as doctors administered IV fluids, antibiotics, and cooling treatments. Leo’s lungs were congested from untreated pneumonia—a direct consequence of living in poor conditions during the winter months.
I didn't sit down once. I stood beside Maren, holding a bag of saline overhead when the stand jammed, while Maren stroked Leo’s hair, whispering nursery rhymes into his ear.
Whenever Leo whimpered in pain from the IV needles, I leaned down, holding his tiny hand, whispering, "I'm here, buddy. Daddy's right here. I'm not going anywhere."
At 3:00 PM, the monitor's alarm stopped blaring. Leo's breathing stabilized, deepening into a peaceful, healthy sleep. The chief pediatrician turned to us, smiling gently.
"The fever has broken," the doctor announced. "The antibiotics are working. He’s out of danger. A few days of rest and proper nutrition, and he’ll be completely fine."
Maren let out a long, shuddering breath, her body going limp with exhaustion. I caught her by the waist before her knees could buckle, supporting her weight against my chest.
For a brief, fleeting second, she rested her head against my shoulder, leaning into my strength as she had done hundreds of times during our marriage. The familiar scent of her hair—wildflowers and rain—flooded my senses, bringing back a rush of memories of quiet Sunday mornings, shared laughter, and a love I had foolishly thrown away.
Then, as if realizing where she was, Maren gently pulled back. She looked up at me, her expression soft, but guarded.
"Thank you, Rowan," she whispered. "For acting so fast."
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"You don't ever have to thank me for saving our son, Maren," I said, my voice thick with emotion. "I should have been there to protect him months ago."
"You're here now," she said quietly, looking down at Leo’s peaceful face. "That's... that's a start."
