Page 11 of Kingpin's Secret Baby

Even if him leaving feels like being torn in half.

Chapter 6

Fantasia

Idon’t watch Piers leave. I shouldn’t. I can’t. It’s good that he’s going- Iwantedhim to go.

As soon as the front door slams closed, though, I’m moving.

I go straight for the kitchen, for the fridge. It’s only lightly stocked with essentials. Milk, eggs, butter, juice. No cold beers. I check every cabinet and find plates, glasses, pots and pans of every variety, but no alcohol. This wretched house doesn’t come with a wine cabinet or a cellar. I throw open the pantry door next. It’s fully stocked with cans and boxes of all varieties, but there are no bottles of whiskey or rum. There’s not even boxed wine, which I’ll stoop to drinking in this moment.

There’s nothing.

I don’t realize until that moment, standing in the walk-in pantry surrounded by everything I don’t have a craving for- that I’m gasping for breath. My vision blurs with tears. My knees buckle. I almost let my legs go out from under me, but I lock them just in time. I don’t want to break down here where Armstrong and Barnes will find me. They’ve made themselves scarce now, but that doesn’t mean they won’t barge in at the most humiliating moment possible. With all my will, I trudge out of the pantry and toward the stairs, my mind on the solitude of my own room.

In Wesley Hall I’d spend my sleepless nights in the drawing room in front of the fireplace. I could drink away my demons in peace, with only the occasional quiet servant passing through the poke at the logs, stoking the flames just a little higher against the chill. Every now and then Achilles would find me there, and we’d argue about what I should or shouldn’t do until we were both screaming. But for the most part, the room was my sanctuary, where no ghosts lurked.

There are no ghosts in this modern suburban home, but I feel less at peace than ever before, even as I close my bedroom door behind me. Maybe I’m the spirit who’s come to haunt the place.

Piers didn’t get a chance to unpack my bag earlier, and I have no interest in it now. I sprawl on the bed without even kicking my duffle off or tucking myself in, too tired and heartsick to care.

I wake to hands on me. Rough, heavy, merciless hands that yank me out of bed before I can scream. My head spins as I’m slammed against the floor, landing hard on my back, the wooden boards cracking under my shoulder.

I thrash wildly, my foot connecting with something solid- a face, judging by the grunt of pain. I kick again, blindly, and catch the same man in the jaw. His curse is sharp and vicious.

A meaty palm covers my mouth, crushing my lips against my teeth. I bite down hard, tasting blood. He jerks back, cursing again, and I suck in a breath to scream, but it’s cut short as another set of hands pins my arms to the floor, pressing down with bruising force.

I twist, buck, slam my heels into the ground, trying to gain leverage, but it’s like fighting against stone. They’re bigger, stronger. My vision blurs, panic surging through me, hot and electric.

I’m trapped.

“Fuckin’hell-”

I recognize the voice, and it almost shocks me into stillness.

Almost.

Armstrong’s bony hands finally grab my ankles, but I don’t stop kicking against them. I claw at Barnes’s massive hairy arms, getting his skin under my fingernails before he shouts and punches me in the face.

My vision goes white. I taste metal. I hear a bell ringing.

“Stupid cunt-”

Downstairs, someone knocks at the front door. Barnes curses, his hand going around my throat and squeezing. Instinct tells me to scrabble at his grip, but instead I pound my fists against the floor with all my might. My legs are still flailing against Armstrong’s grip, my ankles hammering painfully against the ground. Armstrong releases his grip on my ankles, but before I can redouble my efforts, he stomps down on my right shin.

The pain is white hot. My whole body seizes, trying to curl into the fetal position around my injuries, but Barnes hasn’t released his grip on my neck. Now that I’m limp, he only tightens it.

Then he yanks a knife out of his belt.

I want to scream. It might be the last thing I ever do, but at least I won’t die silently. But there’s nothing left in my lungs and nothing but pain in my limbs. Barnes drags me up by the neck, his hand around my throat and my flailing feet the only thing keeping me upright.

There’s a pounding in my head so loud I wonder if he can hear it.

Armstrong pulls a gun, but he doesn’t point it at me.

Barnes’s knife flies toward me, and agony rips through my side.

Someone is shouting, but it’s not me. How can it? I have no air left to breathe-

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