Page 39 of He Should Be Mine
His bruises are worse than I thought. The image of them flashes through my mind, sharper than a dagger.
I rub a hand over my face. I should have done something. Should have said something. Should have…
But I didn’t. Because I can’t. Not unless I want Riccardo to rip out both our hearts and pin them to the wall.
I get up.
In the kitchen, I make toast. That’s all I can manage this morning. Anything more would feel… wrong. Like it would make this day into something special, when it isn’t. When it can’t be.
Yesterday’s breakfast was Molly’s request. Something to distract him. It was an offering, a silent apology. A hollow, meaningless gesture that I cannot bear to repeat.
I pop the slices in, pull out two plates, two mugs. I know the second one isn’t necessary yet. Molly won’t be up for a while. He drinks his weight in wine the day after Riccardo touches him. Every time. I don’t blame him.
I blame myself.
The toast pops up. I stare at it for a moment. Then I reach for the butter. Plain toast. Simple. Safe. Harmless.
Everything I wish I was.
I hear him before I see him. Bare feet on the polished floor. The faint creak of a door. Then the unmistakable sound of someone trying very hard to not sound hungover.
I don’t look up. Not immediately. Just keep sipping my coffee and watching the morning news scroll silently across the television. Nothing good. Nothing helpful. Nothing that makes sense of what the hell I’m doing with my life.
He rounds the corner into the kitchen, and when I finally glance his way, I almost choke.
Molly stands there like sin personified. Bare-legged, hair messy from sleep, eyes still smudged with last night’seyeliner that he put on even though he wasn’t going anywhere. And the shirt,myshirt, by the looks of it, draping over his small frame like a lover’s hands. It hangs off one shoulder, the hem grazing the tops of his thighs. He stretches his arms over his head, a small whimper escaping his throat like a kitten waking up.
I scowl. “Is that my shirt?”
Molly blinks innocently. “Yep. Laundry service got it mixed up in my stuff.”
He grins, wide and shameless, and then walks casually over to the fridge like we’re roommates. Like we’re lovers. Like this whole situation isn’t fucked up and wrong.
I lean one elbow on the counter. “Pretty sure it has my initials stitched in the collar.” Seems like I’m playing the nothing is wrong game too.
Molly shrugs, grabbing orange juice and drinking straight from the bottle. “Guess it’s mine now.”He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “You want it back? You’ll have to fight me for it.”
He glances at me over his shoulder and smirks. He’s playing. Teasing. Dangerous.
I should shut this down. Now. I should ignore him and stop talking to him. Attention is Molly’s fuel. He ignites it and turns it into deadly fire.
But instead of retreating to safety, I ask, “How’s your head?”
“Loud.” He closes the fridge, padding toward me with a glass now. “But not as loud as your footsteps this morning. Were you stomping on purpose, or are you just built like a wardrobe?”
I raise an eyebrow. “I was trying to be quiet.”
“Well,” he says brightly, sliding onto the stool next to mine, “You failed.”
I try not to look at the way the shirt has ridden up. He looks like a mess of contradictions, gorgeous and fragile, chaotic and clever, innocent and lethal.
His legs are bare.
My grip tightens on the butter knife that I’m somehow still holding, and I look away. It doesn’t help. My entire body is aware that Molly is next to me. It’s all I can think about.
I slide a plate towards the stool he always perches on and push the toast his way. “Eat.”
He stares at it. Then up at me. “No eggs this morning? No sausage?”
