Page 66 of He Should Be Mine

He might laugh. Or he might hesitate just long enough to make them wonder.

God, I want to storm into the room. To get in their faces and tell them he’s not lying forme, he’s lyingfor Riccardo. That he’s terrified, not because of me, but because the man who hurt him might find out he talked.

But I can’t do that. I can’t fix this by pushing. I’d just make it worse. So I sit. I breathe. I clench my fists in my lap and fight the urge to pace.

And I start to second guess what Molly will say. Will he protect Riccardo? Or will he try to protect himself? And, quietly, guiltily, I wonder what he’ll say aboutme.

Because if they ask him what I am to him and he decides to tell the truth… I don’t know the answer.

Bodyguard? Babysitter, security… jailer?

Friend? Something more?

Molly doesn’t know he is going to be mine. He has no idea I’m plotting against Riccardo. I can’t tell him. Not when Riccardo beats him and drugs him. Molly wasn’tborn to this life, he doesn’t know how to keep secrets so far down that they never, ever slip out.

Molly doesn’t know. I can’t tell him. And I have no idea what he thinks of me.

I press the heels of my hands to my eyes. I need to stop my mind from whirling. I need to calm it. To only think of the here and now. But the present moment is a hospital in the middle of the night.

I hate hospitals. Molly hates them too, but I never should have allowed that to sway me.

I hate waiting. I hate this feeling of being utterly helpless. I just want to see him. I want to hear his voice, even if it’s hoarse and faint.

And part of me wants him to tell the truth. To tell the authorities all about Riccardo and me, and all the awful things we have done to him.

“Mr. Smith?”

I jolt like I’ve been shot. My head snaps up. A nurse stands at the edge of the waiting room, her scrubs wrinkled, a clipboard tucked under one arm. Her voice is calm but kind. Tired, maybe.

“He’s asking for you.”

Everything in me goes still for a moment. Then I’m on my feet, crossing the room before I remember to even breathe. My heart thunders. My chest feels too tight for the air I try to suck in.

He’s awake.

He asked for me.

I follow her down the corridor. The lights are too bright. We pass empty rooms and sleepy nurses at stations, their monitors casting soft blue glows across their faces. Myshoes are too loud on the floor. My hands are fists at my sides.

I don’t ask if he’s okay. I can’t get the words past the lump in my throat.

The nurse stops at a door and gestures gently. “He’s a little disoriented. Fever’s coming down. We’ll monitor him for the rest of the night.”

I nod, eyes already on the door. She steps aside. I knock once, quietly, and ease it open.

It’s a small room. Clean. Quiet. A single window with the blinds drawn halfway, casting lines of shadow across the floor. The machines beep softly. There’s a bag of fluids hanging on a pole, dripping down into a line that disappears beneath the thin blanket.

And there he is.

Molly.

Propped slightly on the pillows, flushed pale-gold and sickly in the sterile light. His hair is a mess. His lips are dry. He’s wearing a hospital gown that makes him look tiny and strange, like he doesn’t belong in it.

But his eyes are open. And when he sees me, those big eyes soften. Not startled. Not afraid. Just… relieved. Possibly something far more, but I don’t dare to believe it.

His mouth twitches into something almost like a smile. Barely there. But it breaks something open in my chest.

I step inside, slow, like I’m afraid to wake him from something fragile.