Page 65 of Auctioned to the Mafia Don
Omar makes a sound that is almost suffering.
Heath’s mouth twitches.
Tiny.
Exhausted.
Still there.
“Why?” he asks.
Because you are Alice’s son.
Because no one sat with her.
Because I am trying to make up for a lifetime with two days and know I am already failing.
Because when you yelledI said me, I understood that Leon didn't only hurt your mother. He taught you love meant volunteering for the worst part.
I swallow all of that.
“Because nightmares are worse when they think they have the room to themselves.”
He looks away.
But he doesn't tell me to leave.
So I stay.
The rest of the night is not peaceful. Heath doesn't sleep. Not really. He dozes in short, ugly slips and jerks himself awake every time the house creaks or Erin shifts beneath her blanket. I try what I know. Water, left near his hand instead of offered. A breathing count he refuses until he thinks I have stopped watching, then follows silently. A pillow against his back becausewalls feel safer than open space. Five things he can see. Four he can touch. Three he can hear.
He fights all of it.
Uses some of it anyway.
I do not point that out.
At some point, Erin falls asleep again with one hand dangling off the couch toward him. Heath stares at that hand for a long time. Then, when he thinks I am not looking, he reaches up and hooks one finger around hers.
My throat tightens so hard it hurts.
Omar looks away.
I almost like him for it.
Near dawn, Omar finally makes me leave.
He does it quietly, which is how I know the night has affected him too.
“You need rest,” he says from the doorway.
“I’m fine.”
“You are swaying while sitting down.”
“That’s a skill.”
Heath’s eyes flicker to me.
