Erin starts crying.
I sit on the edge of the bed and take Heath’s hot, shaking hand before he can pull it beneath the blanket.
“No one is taking you,” I tell him.
His fingers twitch weakly around mine.
This time, he doesn't let go.
Chapter Ten
Maya
Heath’s skin is too hot beneath my hand.
Not warm. Not flushed from sleep. Hot.
The kind of heat that makes everything else in the room go sharp around the edges.
Erin cries harder when I pull my hand away from his forehead, and Heath makes a small, miserable sound in the back of his throat that does something awful to my chest. His eyes open halfway, unfocused and glassy, then close again as if even seeing the room costs too much.
“No,” he mumbles. “Don’t.”
“I’m here,” I say, keeping my voice calm because someone in this room has to sound like the world is not splitting open. “No one is taking you.”
His fingers twitch weakly around mine.
This time, he doesn't let go.
That almost breaks me more than the fever.
Omar stands in the doorway with his phone already in hand, face hard, eyes moving from Heath to Erin to me. “I’m calling Stefano.”
“Call a doctor.”
“I will call Stefano.”
“Omar.”
His gaze cuts to mine. “His doctor. His house. His orders.”
I want to fight him. I want to tell him I do not care whose house this is, whose doctor lives close enough to be useful, or whose permission unlocks basic medical care for a sick eight-year-old. But Heath shifts in the bed, breath hitching, and Erin’s crying turns thin and panicked beside me.
I do not have time to win a power struggle with Omar Strada.
“Fine,” I say. “Call him.”
Omar steps into the hall.
I look back at Heath. His cheeks are too red, his hair damp at the temples, lashes dark against skin that should not be this pale beneath fever. He has one hand wrapped in mine and the other fisted in the blanket like he is still trying to hold onto something in the dream.
Erin crawls onto the bed before I can stop her.
“Careful,” I say softly.
She freezes. “Am I hurting him?”
“No. Just slow.”
