Dom’s stare burned into the side of Jesse’s head. “Doctor?”
Crap. Jesse wanted to groan. Nate didn’t have to say that in front of Dom. Except Nate just looked pointedly at him, as though he was saying, You didn’t tell Dom?
“I feel fine,” Jesse grumbled. “There’s no need to go.”
But Nate only appeared more suspicious than ever. Jesse’s arms prickled; he tried not to touch the stitches.
“You’re sick?” Dom asked, narrowing his eyes, too.
“No, I’m fine.” Jesse glared.
Dom glanced at Nate for answers, but Nate only nodded back at Jesse. “His story, not mine.”
Gods, Jesse wasn’t about to tell Dom anything else about the Facility. Bad enough that he’d gone and blurted all that crap last year. Bad enough that he’d already bottomed once for Dom.
Dom reached out for him; Jesse shrugged off his grasp. “I’m going to do some actual work around here,” Jesse muttered. “Instead of standing around gossiping.”
With that, he left the kitchen, determined to avoid the rest of Dom’s questions.
17
The Mysterious Morning Sickness
Over the next few weeks, Dom’s donuts continued to disappear off Sinclair’s locker. On the fifth week, though, it stayed there the whole day.
Dom stepped into the kitchen close to dinnertime, following the scent of beef stew and mashed potatoes. Gareth was cooking—Dom had come to recognize those particular scents over the decades. He could already taste the garlic and cheese in the potatoes, the tomato and rosemary in the stew.
“It’s ready, right?” Dom asked, glancing around at the assembled team.
“In a minute,” Gareth said, stirring the pots at the stove.
“But the alarm might go off in a minute,” Alec quipped.
York elbowed him. “Don’t jinx it!”
Dom knew he was fortunate that everyone on the team had at least one dish they were proficient at cooking. He’d heard stories from other firehouses—meals he was thankful he didn’t have to experience.
“There, it’s ready,” Gareth said. “Have at it.”
A cheer rose amongst the team. Everyone made to grab their plates—that was, everyone but Sinclair. Sinclair didn’t look eager about the food at all. That wasn’t like him.
When most of the guys had helped themselves, Dom piled some food onto his plate, taking a seat at the table. Sinclair was the last to join them—there wasn’t much on his plate at all. Dom knew he’d left much more in the pots than just a few spoonfuls of mashed potato.
“I didn’t poison the food, Jesse,” Gareth said dryly.
Sinclair shrugged. “I’m not hungry.”
“You didn’t have lunch,” York said.
Dom had been late to lunch—he’d been on a call. So this was news.
Sinclair winced and dug halfheartedly into the potatoes. “I had some food earlier.”
No, he hadn’t. The donut was still on his locker. Was he sick?
The team ate quickly, each of them ever aware that a call could interrupt their meal. Even then, Sinclair was the last to finish.
Dom kept an eye on him after that, but Sinclair seemed to attend his calls perfectly well.
Three days later, on their next shift, Dom overheard retching in the locker room. The toilet flushed. Sinclair stepped out, heading over to the sinks to rinse his mouth.
Uneasy, Dom went over to him. “If you’re not feeling well, you should’ve said something. Take the rest of the day off.”
Sinclair glowered. “I’m fine.”
“You ate that donut yet?”
The man looked away, but something about his demeanor told Dom he hadn’t.
“Lost your taste for the chocolate ones?” Dom asked. That was fine—he could get Sinclair something else.
Sinclair flipped him off. “I don’t even like those donuts.”
That was more his style. So maybe he’d just lost his appetite. Dom shrugged, turning away. “Sure. But tell me if you need to leave early.”
Not that he should care so much whether Sinclair was present. Or whether Sinclair liked his donuts.
There was no answer, but Dom knew Sinclair had heard it. That was good enough.
On their next shift, shadows had begun to appear under Sinclair’s eyes. He still wasn’t eating enough at mealtimes, either. It was all Dom could do not to yell at him across the table.
After dinner, Dom pulled him aside, trying not to growl. “Have you seen a doctor?”
Sinclair bristled. “I’m fine, Dom.”
“Yeah? Then tell me how eating three spoonfuls of peas is ‘fine’.”
“Why the hell are you watching what I eat?” Pink fanned across Sinclair’s cheeks. On any other day, it would’ve looked good on him. Right now, it just scraped the wrong way against Dom’s instincts.
“Everyone at the table was watching you eat,” Dom muttered. “You think no one noticed?”
Sinclair scowled harder. “There’s nothing wrong with me.”
“The moment we clock off, I’m taking you to the doctor.”
Sinclair looked appalled. “I’m not a baby.”
“Then fucking tell me what’s wrong with you!” Because it was digging under Dom’s skin, not knowing. “It’s been over a week. You’re not getting any better.”
“Maybe I’m just on a diet.”
“A diet where you puke and ignore those donuts?” Dom gave him a pointed look. “You’d give anything to eat them off my body, Sinclair. Don’t think I haven’t noticed.”
Sinclair flushed redder.
That had been a wild guess. But Dom’s instincts roared when Sinclair couldn’t meet his eyes. He wanted to yank Sinclair closer, he wanted to brush his wrists over Sinclair’s skin, to mark him with blackwood. That was a crazy thought. It didn’t make it any less real.
“Look, I’ll go to the doctor myself, if it’ll make you shut up.”
“Fine.” At least, that soothed Dom’s nerves, except he wanted to be at the clinic, too. Just to make sure he knew what the doctor said. And so he could make Sinclair swallow his pills—since Sinclair wasn’t taking care of himself right now.
“You’re going to the doctor?” Nate asked behind them.
Sinclair jumped. Dom turned, irked that he hadn’t heard Nate’s approach at all—he’d been so focused on Sinclair. “Is there a surefire way to convince him?”
Nate sent Sinclair an unreadable look. “Go to the medical center in Highton. The one with your
