Page 62 of He Should Be Mine

I flinch. Just a little. “Don’t make me go.” My mouth is giving shape to the words even though my throat can’t manage them.

Dario exhales slowly. I can see the battle in his face, logic versus instinct, his fear versus my fear.

“You’re scared,” he says softly.

I close my eyes. Nod.

He’s silent for a moment, then sighs and brushes his fingers along my cheek.

“Okay. We won’t go. Not yet. But if it gets worse, I’m picking you up and carrying you there.”

I nod again. It’s all I can manage.

His hand lingers at my forehead, then drifts down to rest lightly against my shoulder.

“You’re not alone,” he says.

And I believe him. I really do.

But inside, I feel like I’m dissolving. My chest is tight, my limbs are heavy and useless, and there’s a high-pitched ringing in my ears that drowns out everything except the sound of my own heart. My vision wavers at the edges, going blurry and dark like ink spilled in water.

I try to speak, to thank him, maybe. To tell him I don’t deserve this kind of care. Or that I’m glad he stayed. That I feel safe. Even now.

But all that comes out is a half-breath, a dry rasp of air.

“Molly?” His voice is sharper now, alert.

I want to reassure him. I try to smile.

But then the shadows fold inward. The room spins. My limbs stop listening.

And I fall. Out of the moment. Out of myself. Into nothing.

Chapter seventeen

Dario

The automatic doors slide open with a mechanical groan. The fluorescent lights inside are too bright, too sterile, but I don’t hesitate. I walk straight in, expensive shoes heavy on the linoleum, Molly burning like a coal against my chest.

He’s barely conscious now. Damp curls stick to his forehead. His breath stutters in my ear, too shallow, too fast. His skin is hotter than it should be. It’s burning hot, even through the damp of his sweat-soaked nightgown.

I shouldn’t have waited so long. I shouldn’t have wasted time trying to get permission from Riccardo to call an Ajello doctor.

A receptionist behind the desk looks up. Her face shifts the second she sees us.

“We need help,” I say, voice low but firm.

A nurse appears instantly, snapping into motion. “Over here,” she says. “Let’s get him onto the gurney.”

“I’ve got him,” I mutter, tightening my hold.

But she’s already pulling one over. Another nurse hurries in with a blood pressure cuff, and I’m surrounded. Molly’s taken from my arms, gentle but quick, and themoment he’s out of my grip, a cold, crawling feeling slips in to replace him.

They’re talking fast, asking questions, checking his pulse, wheeling him through double doors before I’ve even fully registered the motion.

“He’s burning up,” one of them says. “Possible sepsis? Start fluids.”

Someone turns to me as they pass. “Are you his partner?”