Page 67 of Auctioned to the Mafia Don
“Yes.”
Omar says nothing for a moment.
Then, “Good.”
He leaves before I can decide what to do with that.
I sleep badly.
Not because of Stefano this time.
Not mostly.
The kiss is still there, waiting in the dark with all its sharp teeth and inconvenient heat, but Heath’s nightmare is louder. Every time I start to drift, I hear him again.
Don’t take her.
I said me.
They’ll hear you.
By morning, I have slept maybe two hours and woken four times reaching for a gun I don’t have. The house is too quiet and I decide to check on Erin and Heath.
The children’s sitting room is empty when I get there. No Erin with jam on her face. No Heath in the chair by the window pretending not to read. Their breakfast tray sits untouched near the door, eggs cooling beneath a silver cover, toast cut into triangles no one has eaten.
My stomach drops.
Then I hear Erin.
“Maya?”
Small.
Scared.
I follow her voice into the adjoining bedroom.
Erin stands beside the bed in her pajamas, one hand twisted in the blanket and the stuffed rabbit crushed against her chest. Heath lies beneath the covers, cheeks flushed, hair damp against his forehead. His eyes are half-open but unfocused, his body curled tightly on his side as if even fever cannot convince him to take up space.
I cross the room and touch the back of my fingers to his forehead.
Heat burns against my skin.
Too much.
“Omar,” I call.
My voice comes out calm.
It doesn't feel calm.
He appears in the doorway almost immediately, phone already in hand, face hard as his eyes go from me to Heath.
“He has a fever,” I say.
Heath stirs, lashes fluttering.
“Don’t,” he mumbles.
