Charlie shrugs. “I think my hole might have sealed up by now. There are so many cobwebs over the entrance it could be on the set of Raiders of the Lost Ark.”

“They’re digging in the wrong place, Indy,” I mutter, and he laughs.

I shift position slightly, feeling my muscles tense up. “I’m going to ring the hospital and make you an emergency appointment,” I say quickly, getting the words out in a mad rush before he can shut me down. I brace myself for open warfare, but it’s a sign of how bad he feels that he doesn’t even argue. That makes cold tendrils of fear sneak down my back. “You can’t keep ignoring this, Charlie. You have to see a professional so they can assess you.” I swallow hard. “People die from this condition and you’re leaving it untreated,” I whisper. “Please don’t do that, Charlie.”

There’s a long enough silence for me to prepare for a tongue lashing, but he must have heard the stark fear in my voice because he reaches back and pats my hip. “Okay,” he whispers.

I sag with relief. “You’ll go?”

He nods. “The number’s in my phone.”

“Thank you,” I say fervently and kiss his shoulder. The skin is as soft as silk there.

We lie silent for a second and then he mutters, “Play me something.”

I reach out for my phone on the side table and fiddle with Spotify before connecting to the Bluetooth speaker. The sound of “Tear” by the Red Hot Chili Peppers slips out.

“Why have you chosen this one?” he asks sleepily.

The gentle and warm cadence of the song reminds me so much of Charlie’s presence. It’s sunny and warm like him. I pull him close and bury my face in his wavy blond hair, inhaling the scent of melon.

“I just like the tune,” I say, aware that he’s fallen asleep as quickly as a child.

Chapter Seven

Misha

I come awake with a start when I hear the click of the door lock and then a soft curse as the door fails to open. Harry.

The room is dimly lit by the lamp on the bedside table, and I cast a quick look at Charlie. He’s sleeping obliviously, his mouth open slightly and his hair everywhere. I grab my trousers and shirt and pull them on before throwing open the door and stepping out quickly.

It forces Harry back, and he staggers slightly. I make no move to help him. Instead, I fold my arms over my chest and stare at him. He’s flushed and obviously a little drunk, his clothing disarranged, and when he steps closer, I catch the bitter tang of spunk on his breath. So the fucker was out scoring while Charlie was ill. My temper rises. What a total and utter wanker.

“Can I help you?” I say coldly.

He sneers. “How the hell can you possibly help me unless it’s to get the fuck out of my hotel room?”