Page 14 of Kingpin's Secret Baby

“Remember when you were fifteen, and you climbed that fucking tree behind Wesley Hall?” I ask, more to myself than to her. Fantasia doesn’t respond, but I know she’s listening. The needle works through her pale skin, drawing more blood in its wake, but slowly, slowly sealing the wound. “You tried to follow my exact path up, but your arms and legs weren’t long enough. Your foot slipped off the side of a branch, and you didn’t have a good grip and… you fell.”

As a kid, Fantasia was loudest when she was least injured, but once the real pain began she’d go quiet as a ghost. She’d come to me to bandage her papercuts, tears in her big green eyes. It was her delight to be doted on, by Achilles, by me, long after she became old enough to tend her own wounds.

But that day, when I watched her tumble out of that tree-

“I thought you were dead,” I say. “You were so fucking still, and it looked like you’d fallen so far. I thought I’d just watched you die. And that it was my fault.”

Fantasia’s careful breathing falters. I pause in my gruesome sewing checking to see if I’d hurt her, but her gaze is steady on me, if tired. She’s listening. Maybe that’s helping her get through this as much as it’s helping me, so I go on.

“Your arm was broken in three places. The pain must’ve been intense. But after you got back from the hospital with your huge cast, you told me you’d just been embarrassed that you’d fallen. So embarrassed that you didn’t want me to know how much it hurt.” I shake my head, laughing weakly. Only a few stitches left now.

“I couldn’t believe how… obsessed you were with maintaining your image. When I was younger I thought it was some kind of narcissism. But now I see it as strength of will. Misguided, yeah, but goddamn impressive too.”

I knot the thread and trim it, then slather it with petroleum jelly and carefully wrap gauze around her waist. Another damp washcloth wipes away the drying blood on her stomach and ribs while Fantasia pulls my belt out of her mouth. There’s deep impressions of every one of her teeth in the firm leather. Very carefully, I turn her onto her side and wipe down her back too. There’s blood in her hair- there’s blood all over her still- but this is the most I can do before I somehow get her back on her feet.

And before that happens, I need to make one thing very clear.

I lean over Fantasia, my shadow falling across her face. She blinks up at me, exhausted and hollow. I move closer, and her eyes widen just a little.

“Don’t ever question why I saved your life again,” I tell her, and kiss her hard.

Chapter 8

Fantasia

Piers’s mouth hits mine, and all the pain I’ve just gone through might just as well have been worth it.

His lips are hot and soft, and they work mine open with ease. His tongue sweeps through my mouth, wiping away the taste of my fear and claiming it for his own. His hands cup my face, his fingertips brushing against the tender skin of my bruises, but I don’t care.

I’m warmer than I’ve ever been before, cradled in Piers’s gentle hands.

When he pulls away, it’s all I can do not to lean up after him. But of course as soon as I try to move, my side burns like the devil.

Piers’s dark eyes search my face. His pupils are enormous, his breathing ragged. I almost think he’ll kiss me again, but instead… he sits up and begins collecting the scattered pieces of the first aid kit.

I temper my disappointment, because as the glow fades, I grimly decide that I shouldn’t have let him kiss me in the first place.

There’s still a great deal of pain in my side, but the tingling in my lips is starting to act like a general anesthetic. The metallic reek of my own blood, the sting of isopropyl alcohol, and the musk of the wet rags littered across the floor are all filling my nose, but now I can taste Piers’s tongue, the salt of his sweat and the sweetness of his lip balm.

I’m feeling… much better. But I refuse to credit it to being firmly kissed by a man who shouldn’t be in the same country as me, much less the same house. I’ve just begun to recover from the high and low of my adrenaline, and accepted that the men who tried to hurt me can’t do it ever again.

I bend my arms slowly, hiking them up so I can prop myself up on my elbows.

It hurts. Quite a bit. But I’m well on my way to being upright, so I push up with my palms- and freeze in pain.

“What the hell are you doing?” Piers demands- removing all the goodwill he just earned with that kiss.

“I’m trying to stand,” I say. “Shouldn’t that be obvious?”

“You should give yourself a few minutes.”

“I’d like to spend those minutes on my feet,” I counter.

“If you don’t lay still for at least five minutes-”

“You’re going to hold me down?” I cut him off. It’s a low blow, which I realize as soon as his eyes lower to my battered neck.

Piers’s jaw works, the warmth dwindling from his eyes. “At least let me help you up. Bending at the waist like this will only fuck up your stitches.”

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