Page 59 of He Should Be Mine
Chapter sixteen
Molly
Iwake up feeling like I’ve been scraped hollow.
My throat burns. Raw and dry like I’ve been screaming all night, though I know I haven’t. My breath rasps as I suck in air through my nose. Swallowing feels like dragging barbed wire down my neck. My skin is sticky with sweat, and yet I’m shivering under the heavy blanket tucked up to my chin. Even my eyelashes ache.
I try to speak, to say,ugh, orwhat time is it?But only a croak comes out. Pathetic and pitiful. I close my mouth and press my fingers to my neck, like that might soothe the pain. It doesn’t.
Everything hurts.
The light filtering through the blinds is the pale, silvery kind that makes time feel vague and unreal. I’m on the sofa, curled under a throw I don’t remember pulling over myself. I must’ve passed out here last night. The throw smells like clean cotton and something warm underneath, like cardamom and clove and safety. Like Dario.
The blanket scratches my skin. It’s soft, that’s for sure, but everything feels like too much right now. The light filtering in through the curtains is too bright, the silenceis too loud, and even breathing feels like a task I don’t remember agreeing to.
Everything aches. My ribs, my back, my arms. But my throat is by far the worst. Fuck. It’s like someone dragged a knife down the inside of it and then lit a match.
Memories threaten to bubble up, but I squish them down easily. I’ve had an awful lot of practice at repressing things. I’m practically a professional. Besides, it was only a face fuck and I’ve done plenty of those before. There is no reason to be a baby about it.
But fuck this. Swallowing hurts. Talking hurts. Even sighing feels dangerous.
I shouldn’t be out here in the open like this, draped in blankets and vulnerability. I should be in my room, curled up under the covers. But Dario told me to rest on the sofa and for once I didn’t argue.
I didn’t have the energy.
I blink a few more times, still disoriented, and shift beneath the blanket. Pain sparks through my ribs. I wince. Right. That. It barely registered last night, but now it hurts.
I’m not dwelling on the details, but Rick’s idea of playtime has truly left me feeling like shit. It really was one of those nights where he decided to leave a message on my body.
And I used to think being a sugar baby would be glamorous.
Movement. Footsteps. Slow and soft, heavy but careful.
Dario.
I try to sit up. My arms shake with the effort. I don’t make it far before a shadow moves into my line of sight and his hand is at my shoulder, steadying me without a word.
He sits on the coffee table beside the sofa, and I see the worry in his eyes before he speaks.
“You’re awake,” he says gently. His voice is deep and quiet, like he’s afraid of shattering something fragile. Probably me.
I try to answer and immediately regret it. The sound that escapes is closer to a gasp than a word. My throat rebels. My face scrunches as I clutch at the blanket and give up on talking altogether.
“Don’t,” Dario murmurs. “Your throat’s gone. Don’t try to talk, alright?”
I give him a look that probably says,obviously,but he just gives me a small, understanding smile and runs the back of his hand across my forehead. His touch is cool. His hand is gentle. It feels good.
“You’re running hot. And you look like shit,” he adds, voice low. There’s no judgment in it. It sounds like concern trying to pass itself off as sarcasm.
I roll my eyes, which hurts too. Wonderful. My entire body is a protest.
“I’ll make you tea,” he says, already standing. “Chamomile with honey. It’ll help.”
He is going to serve me while I’m all tucked up? This is princess service and I love it. It is definitely something I could get used to.
Dario moves into the kitchen with practiced ease. The clink of cupboard doors. The faint whooshing of the kettle. The gentle tap of a spoon against porcelain. He doesn’t rush, but he doesn’t waste time either. It’s like he’s done this before. Like this isn’t the first time he’s made tea for someone too sick to make it for themselves.
I watch him from the sofa. Every motion is calm, focused. He’s always like that. Efficient. Unshakable. Safe.
