Page 61 of Auctioned to the Mafia Don
Erin giggles sleepily.
Heath doesn't laugh, but he stops watching the doorway long enough to glance at me.
The room settles in layers after that. Lights dimmed. Hall quieter. Omar outside the door instead of inside it after Erin complains his staring makes the room “too awake.” Heath lies on the floor cushion with one arm tucked beneath his head, eyes open, body angled toward Erin’s couch. I sit on the carpet with my back against the low table.
“You can sleep,” I tell him quietly.
“I know.”
“You’re not doing it.”
“You’re talking.”
“I’m breathing. It’s different.”
“You breathe loud.”
“I do not.”
He looks at me.
I lower my voice. “I do not.”
Erin mumbles something in her sleep and rolls onto her side.
Heath’s whole body tenses.
“She’s okay,” I whisper.
He waits.
Erin settles.
Only then does his breathing change.
I do not tell him to relax. Adults say that to children when they want their own discomfort eased. Relax. Calm down. Don’t be scared. As if fear is a switch and not a room someone else locked you inside.
So I sit there and say nothing.
Minutes pass.
Maybe twenty. Maybe forty. The house gets softer around the edges. My thoughts begin to drift in dangerous directions. Stefano’s mouth. Stefano’s hand. Stefano’s voice in the car telling me to say it again. I press my fingers against my own palm until the memory recedes enough to be useless.
Then Heath makes a sound.
Small.
Broken.
I look at him.
His eyes are closed, but his face has changed. Tight. Drawn. One hand grips the blanket at his chest. His feet shift once against the cushion like he is trying to push away from something in his sleep.
“No,” he whispers.
I sit forward.
“Heath.”
