Page 24 of Make You Mine

Sharma continues, “As I’m sure you’re aware, insulin must be stored in temperature-controlled conditions.

If it’s exposed to extreme heat or cold, or if it’s been tampered with in any way, the chemical integrity can be affected.

In some cases, injecting insulin that’s degraded can actually be more dangerous than skipping the dose entirely.

The important thing is she’s stable now, and we’re confident she’ll make a full recovery.

But for the time being, I strongly advise against any travel or strenuous activity.

We’ll need to monitor her glucose levels and re-evaluate her insulin regimen.

It may take a few weeks to get things properly adjusted. ”

Declan nods slowly, his eyes glassy again. There’s no fight left in him, just quiet devastation as he takes it all in.

The moment the doctor is finished with his brief, Declan crosses to the bed. Willow breaks from my side without a word and rushes after him, her trainers squeaking softly on the linoleum as she flings her arms onto the mattress, clutching at Amerie’s lifeless hand.

I remain where I am, one hand on the stroller, suddenly an outsider.

Even in unconsciousness, Amerie is doted over.

She becomes the centerpiece of the room, the wounded victim in her hospital gown, bathed in soft machine light and the unconditional love of those who orbit her.

Declan takes the chair nearest to her bedside, leaning in so closely their foreheads nearly touch.

He smooths damp curls back from her brow with trembling fingers, murmuring something low and private against her hairline.

His movements are tender, reverent, like he’s touching something made of glass.

Willow has taken up her post along her mother’s side, curled awkwardly against the blanket draped over her hip.

Her little arms wrap tight around Amerie’s middle, and every so often she sniffles, her nose pressed against the thin cotton of the hospital sheets as if she can absorb her mother’s warmth by osmosis.

And then, as if that weren’t theatrical enough, Willow suddenly scrambles back toward the stroller.

She rummages for a moment beneath Emmett’s blanket before retrieving the tattered white rabbit she never goes anywhere without.

Its ears are chewed up, its paws permanently discolored from weeks of playground grime.

She clutches it to her chest as she hurries back, climbs onto the edge of the bed, and tucks it beneath Amerie’s arm.

“There,” she whispers, kissing her mum’s cheek. “Now you won’t be scared.”

Jealousy twists in my stomach.

It’s revolting, the way they cling to her. The way they worship her even now, while she lies limp and unresponsive, a barely breathing version of the woman they love.

I’m the one who got the children here safely. I’m the one who held Willow’s hand and soothed Emmett’s cries. I’m the one who remembered the baby’s spare bottle, the nappies, the snacks, the iPad charger. I’m the one who kept everything from falling apart. And yet no one even thinks to thank me.

No one notices me at all.

They fall over themselves to fuss over a woman who’s given them nothing but panic and pain.

Thirty minutes pass. Possibly more. Time melts in places like this—sterile, humming spaces where the mood is morose and glum.

Eventually, Dr. Sharma returns. He taps lightly on the frame of the door, though it’s already open, and nods to Declan.

“Would you mind stepping outside with me for a moment?” he asks. “I’d like to discuss more details about your wife’s condition.”

Declan’s nod is slow and mechanical, like he’s still processing what’s happened.

Before he gets far, Willow tugs on his sleeve.

“Daddy,” she squeaks, shifting her weight from foot to foot. “I have to go pee.”

He gestures to the adjoining ensuite, and she scampers off, the sound of her trainers squeaking against the floor giving way to the click of the bathroom door behind her.

Declan follows the doctor out into the hallway, his shoulders slumped and hands shoved into his pants pockets.

And at last, I’m alone with her.

A pulse of adrenaline rolls through me like a hot and intoxicating current. It hums beneath my skin as I take a slow step toward the bed, the silence of the room folding around me like a closing curtain.

She lies there, utterly defenseless.

Declan is gone. Willow’s tucked away behind the bathroom door. Amerie is alone with me, unconscious and helpless to the threat looming over her.

I drift closer.

The machines don’t protest as I lean in, their beeping calm, steady, indifferent. I could so easily silence them. One press of a button or a tug of a cord. A pillow drawn gently up over that blank, expressionless face.

The idea takes root. My fingers twitch at my side.

It would be so easy.

No blood. No mess. Just a gentle hush, like sending her to sleep one final time.

The weaker she becomes, the stronger I become.

The woman I once admired, whose writing I poured over late at night, sitting cross-legged in bed with deep longing in my chest. She’s here, helpless, pathetic, flattened by circumstance.

I used to think she was brilliant. She was so perfect and prolific.

But up close, stripped of her polish, she’s just another brittle little thing that’s cracked under pressure.

They always do.

My gaze drops to her throat, and for a moment I wonder how long it would take. How quiet it would be. Would she even stir? Would her eyes flutter open just for a second, only to see me, and know?

But the fantasy evaporates.

Declan strides back into the room, and I straighten at once, the spell broken.

“I’m staying,” he says, sounding more defeated than I’ve ever heard him. “I can’t leave her side tonight.”

I frown. “Who could blame you?”

“I know it’s a big ask,” he goes on, “but would you mind going back to the house with the kids? It’s getting late and I… I just can’t leave her.”

He doesn’t need to explain.

My heart thuds, beating fast at his request.

He needs me. They all do.

“Of course. Don’t worry about a thing. I’ll take Willow and Emmett home, make sure they’re settled.” My hand lifts, fingers brushing his arm in a comforting touch. “We’ll be fine. You focus on Amerie.”

The words feel bitter in my mouth, but I let them linger. Step by step, it’s all coming together.

An hour and a half later, the Keating house greets me in silence, its warm hush settling around my shoulders the moment I step inside. The air carries that lived-in scent I’ve come to recognize over the weeks—clean linen, lemon wax, the faintest hint of sweetness from Amerie’s perfume.

The same perfume I’ve bought and begun to wear.

I close the door behind us and guide the children into the kitchen, flicking on the light with the ease of someone who knows every drawer and cupboard by heart.

I move through the routines like a true natural—boiling the kettle, slicing bread, spreading jam in neat diagonal lines across toast. Willow sits at the table with her chin in her hand, her eyes half lidded and red rimmed, while Emmett dozes with his thumb caught between his lips, too tired even to whimper.

They eat what I feed them, too weary for objections. Upstairs, the rituals continue.

I run the taps and fill the basin, checking the water’s temperature with the inside of my wrist the way I’ve seen Amerie do. I coax arms into pajama sleeves and set out toothbrushes. I rinse and dry. I choose the bedtime story myself because Willow doesn’t have the energy to argue.

By the time I ease her beneath the covers, her limbs have gone slack, but her eyes remain open, glassy, and uncertain.

“Chels,” she whispers, “will my mommy ever come home?”

The question should move me. I suppose a more sensitive woman might feel more sympathetic. But I’m more aloof as I smooth hair away from her face and tell her the harsh truth of life.

“Sometimes,” I say quietly, “mummies don’t come home.”

Her brows crease as she stares up at me in confusion. I can see the tears threatening to spill again. But I go on before she can work up the nerve to argue.

“Sometimes, when that happens… you get a new mummy. Someone who stays. Someone who looks after you properly. Someone who never goes away.”

I lean down and kiss her forehead, then wish her goodnight.

Emmett’s room is quiet when I pass through the doorway, the soft blue nightlight casting a watery glow across the crib. He’s sleeping soundly, fists curled.

Down the corridor, the master bedroom waits.

I walk toward it slowly, savoring each step along the way.

This is where Amerie used to sleep. Where she kept her lotions, her books, her wedding dress in the back of the wardrobe. This is where she woke each morning beside him, wrapped in the illusion that it would always be hers.

I close the door behind me carefully, turning toward the dresser to slip into one of the nighties she wears to bed. The lilac silk slides over my body and feels instantly revealing. I study myself in the mirror and shiver at how the sheer fabric leaves so much skin exposed.

He must love her in this.

There’s something deliciously wicked in the act of it, standing here in her bedroom, clothed in her lingerie, feet pressed into her rug, wearing her perfume.

I move slowly, deliberately, every step a quiet saunter toward the bed, the hem of the nightie grazing the tops of my thighs with each shift of my hips.

I ease onto the mattress like it’s been waiting for me, lowering myself into the soft indent where her body once curled, and stretch across the sheets with the ease of someone already believing they’ve claimed the space as their own.

The warm, masculine scent of him lingers on his pillow, and I bury my face in it for a moment, inhaling deeply, as if I can pull him into my lungs.

The heat begins low in my abdomen until my limbs grow heavy and a faint tremble takes hold. I close my eyes and allow the fantasy to shape itself, unspooling behind my lids like a memory that never was.

I see his hands first—those large, capable hands—moving up the length of my thighs with an urgency that borders on reverence, his fingertips grazing the softest parts of me as though he’s savoring what he’s about to claim.

I imagine the weight of his body above mine, the press of his chest against my breasts, the rasp of his voice pitched low at my ear, saying my name in the dark like it’s the only word that’s ever mattered.

In my mind, he kneels between my legs, his gaze burning, his touch both worshipful and wild. His palms press my thighs apart with deliberate force, spreading me wide for him, and he stares like he’s starving, as though he’s been waiting for this moment forever.

My fingers trail lower until they find my aching pussy. I slip them inside, shallow at first, and then deeper, letting the slick pulse ripple through me as I close my eyes and imagine it’s him .

His cock, thick and hard, sliding in and out of me with each thrust. I match the rhythm to the image in my head, hips rising from the mattress, chasing the feeling of him moving inside me, claiming me.

His mouth captures mine roughly in the dark, his voice a low growl at my ear, my name torn from his throat between gritted teeth. He’s feral for me, unhinged with need, the way he was with her so many times.

Only now it’s me beneath him.

It builds quickly, the tension winding tighter with every stroke until I can feel the phantom weight of him bearing down, his body pinning me, stretching me open with the force of his desire.

And when I come, it’s not a scream that escapes, but a raw, soundless gasp.

My body trembles with the force of the pleasure that crashes over me.

My hips lift off the mattress and I clutch at the sheets, fingers twisted into the cotton like I can anchor myself, and make the fantasy last a little longer.

I stay like that for a while, heart fluttering beneath my ribs. The nightie clings to my warm and flushed skin. Eventually, I roll onto my side and brush his pillow with the back of my hand.

She might come home tomorrow. But tonight, this bed belongs to me.