His back struck Celeste’s chest with enough force to drive the air from her lungs, and his right hand jerked open. She caught his upper body beneath the arms, twisted her hip against the bedframe, and knocked the falling glass away from his face.
“Don’t drink that.”
The glass hit the silver dinner tray with a sharp metallic crack. Water jumped across the untouched soup, the folded napkin, and the amber medicine vial rolling toward the tray’s raised edge.
Elias’s heels dragged over the rug. His broad body had become alarmingly light during the nine months Celeste had cared for him, but he was still a large man, and the sudden weight nearly pulled her down with him. She locked one knee against the mattress and lowered him onto the rumpled gray sheets.
His black silk pajama shirt clung to his chest. Sweat shone along his throat beneath the small gold chain he never removed. His breathing came in short, trapped pulls.