Page 64 of He Should Be Mine

Bullshit. I’ve lived too long, seen too much, to believe that.

Still, she softens a little. “We’ll keep you updated.”

She walks away, and I sit back, biting down hard on my frustration. The truth is, part of melikesthat they think he’s mine.

Not the bruises. Not the violence. But the part where they assume I’m the one he calls when he’s sick. The onewho carries him into hospitals and signs his papers and stays through the night. The one who knows how he takes his tea and how to hold the glass when his hands won’t stop shaking.

They think I’m the center of his world. If only they knew how much I want that to be true.

I press the heels of my hands into my eyes. Breathe in. Breathe out.

I’ll wait. For as long as it takes. Because when he wakes up, I want to be the first thing he sees.

After an eternity, one of the nurses calls my false name. Quiet. Professional. She doesn’t smile.

I hesitate, but then I follow the nurse into the corridor. The light out here is sharper. Less forgiving.

A woman is waiting for me. Mid-thirties, neatly dressed. Not a doctor. Not in scrubs. I don’t know her role, but the clipboard in her hand and the set of her mouth tell me exactly what this is.

“We just want to have a quick chat,” she says. Calm. Reassuring.

I nod warily.

She gestures to a side room, one of those little interview spaces with beige walls and a box of tissues on the table like they’re expecting someone to cry. I don’t sit. I lean against the wall and cross my arms.

She closes the door, but not all the way. Leaves it cracked, like she wants me to know this isn’t an interrogation. Not officially. Or perhaps it is because she doesn’t want to be locked in a room with me.

“Mr. Smith, thank you for bringing your… partner in when you did,” she says carefully.

I don’t correct her. I don’t sayhe’s not mine, because I don’t like how it tastes in my mouth.

She continues. “The injuries he came in with are concerning. The bruising, and the abrasions to his throat. Our primary concern is always the patient’s safety.”

I nod again. My jaw’s tight.

“We understand that sometimes patients don’t want to speak up,” she goes on, and now there’s something underneath her voice. “Especially if there’s… a dynamic. An imbalance of power.”

There it is.

She doesn’t say the words.Sugar baby.Kept boy.Paid companion.

But they’re in the air. Between her sentences. In the way she looks at my jacket, at my watch, at the quality leather of my shoes. The 3 a.m. arrival, the bruises on Molly’s pale skin, the expensive silky nightdress he’s wearing because it was the easiest thing to put him in, as well as the softest and coolest against his fever-burning skin.

I want to hit something. My fists curl.

“I didn’t touch him,” I say, low and flat. “I’d never.” The words grind out before I can stop them. Luckily, she doesn’t believe me. She’s probably heard it all before.

She holds my gaze, measuring me. “That’s good to hear. But you understand our duty is to report certain injuries. Especially when the person accompanying the patient has legal or financial authority over them.”

I almost laugh.Authority.I have none. Not where Molly is concerned.

But something stops me. Because for all the quiet judgment in her tone, for all the weight behind herclipboard and cautious professionalism, there’s a detail that is igniting something in my soul.

She’s not looking at Molly like he’s fragile. She’s looking at me like I’m dangerous. Like I’m the one with power. Like I’m the one he chose to go home with. Like he belongs to me.

I hate it.

And, God help me, I like it.