Page 62 of Auctioned to the Mafia Don
He doesn't wake.
His breathing turns fast. Too fast. His head moves against the pillow, and the whisper becomes a choked sound that drags straight down my spine.
“No. Don’t take her.”
Erin stirs.
I move closer but keep my hands to myself. “Heath, you’re safe.”
He jerks upright so fast I nearly reach for him on instinct. I stop myself before I touch him.
His eyes are open.
He is not seeing me.
He scrambles backward, heel catching in the blanket, one arm flung out toward Erin’s couch.
“No,” he gasps. “No, I said me. I said take me.”
Omar appears in the doorway.
I throw up one hand without looking at him.
“Stop.”
He stops. Erin wakes with a frightened whimper. “Heath?”
That makes him worse. He shoves himself between me and the couch, small body shaking, arm stretched toward Erin as if he can hold the world back by refusing to lower it.
“Don’t cry,” he says, voice cracking. “Don’t cry. They’ll hear you.”
Every violent thing in me goes quiet.
Not gone.
Quiet.
The way a room goes quiet before the first shot.
I lower myself fully to the floor. No sudden movement. No reaching. No soft pity. Heath doesn't need pity. He needs proof that this room is not the one in his head.
“Heath,” I say, keeping my voice low. “Look at me.”
His eyes dart to mine.
There is no recognition in them.
Only threat.
“You’re not there,” I say. “You’re in Stefano’s house. Erin is on the couch. I’m on the floor. Omar is at the door looking unpleasant.”
Omar says nothing.
Bless him.
Heath’s breathing stutters.
“Count the windows,” I say.
