Page 19 of Kingpin's Secret Baby

“If you’re not interested in speaking to us with basic courtesy, we’ll be happy to look for better food elsewhere,” I say.

At least, I try to say that. I get as far as “If you-” before Piers’s hand squeezes my knee under the bar, completely derailing my train of thought. His smile hasn’t even faltered.

“I’ll have the All-American breakfast,” he answers. “And she’ll have the blueberry pancakes with a side of sausage.”

My defensive feelings evaporate. “Will I?” I demand.

Piers turns his smile on me. “You love blueberries?” he asks, as if he needs to remind me. He lowers his voice. “And you should get some protein after all that blood loss.”

Idolove blueberries, but it makes my cheeks more than a little warm to think he took that into consideration when ordering for me. I glare at the ceiling, unable to come up with a retort. Thankfully, the crabby man doesn’t notice this little exchange. He’s written down our order and stomped back into the kitchen already.

Instead of pushing for more conversation, Piers pulls out his phone and begins typing away at its screen. Our tea arrives, and it smells like oil and dish soap. I immediately shove it away. Instead, I look around at the mismatched posters and framed photos on the walls around me, the television screens hanging on the wall depicting several different sports games, and the various other people tucked into booths.

This place is… so very alien to me.

Even though the airport was enormous and packed, everyone was on their way to or from somewhere, too absorbed in their own worlds to bother with me. But this diner is small. I can’t escape the feeling of eyes crawling over my skin. Yet every time I look over my shoulder, no one seems to be watching me.

“It looks like there’s a flight to London leaving Charlotte airport in five hours,” Piers says, so suddenly I almost don’t understand the words. “We have plenty of time to eat up and get over there.”

“We?” I ask, for what seems like the hundredth time since I landed in this goddamn country. “If you want me to kiss you goodbye at the gate, you’re more protein deprived than I am-”

“I’m sure Achilles will cancel your exile considering recent events,” Piers interrupts, misunderstanding entirely. It looks like he’s already ordering tickets on his phone. “And if he doesn’t, then I’ll have words for him. Regardless, you’ll be safe at Wesley Hall.”

Perhaps I really have lost more blood than I thought, because my head is spinning at all these insinuations he’s making. Not only does he expect me to go back to England with him, but he wants me to return to Wesley Hall?! That can’t happen.

And not because I don’t want it to. I miss the sad old manor I grew up in like I would miss my own lung. I haven’t been in the States for an entire day, but so far I’ve felt completely unmoored. Everything about this place is alienating to me- the weather, the smells, the cars, the noise, the people.

But how can I possibly return to the place I love when no one even wants me there? Piers is an outlier, an anomaly. My own brother, my most long term and loyal supporter, was the one who put me on the plane that took me away. If there are Ashwoods hunting me to another country to be sure I die for my sins, then how many of them will show up at the gates of Wesley Hall demanding my head once I return?

“I’m not going back,” I say, but my voice doesn’t sound loud enough to me.

Piers’s eyes come away from his phone at last. They meet mine, his brow furrowed, his deep green irises shadowed. He doesn’t look angry, just completely baffled.

“What do you mean?” he asks.

How can I make it any clearer? “I’m not going back, Piers,” I repeat, louder this time.

“You told me to go back to England… but you think you’re staying here,” he says, like I’m the one losing my mind in this moment, and not him.

I’m losing my patience. “I would’ve thought that was obvious.”

Piers blinks fast. “What the hell is your plan, Fantasia? I leave, and you’re still wounded, homeless, and hunted by multiple factions.”

“That’s my business, not yours,” I snap.

He scoffs at me- scoffs! “You’re kidding me.”

I could strangle him. Have I ever told him a joke during our entire acquaintance? “I am not,” I say stiffly. “I’ve been exiled, Piers, just in case you missed it. I am not wanted in England-”

“Butyouwant to be in England,” Piers persists, infuriatingly. “AndIwant you there too.”

“Well I don’t want to be there with you!” I burst out- just in time for the grumpy man to set our food in front of us. Blueberries and whipped cream are piled on top of two pancakes, with three diminutive sausages squeezed onto the side of the plate. I’m so angry that I don’t want to eat a bite of it.

But, unfortunately, I’m also starving.

Avoiding Piers’s stare, I snatch up my fork and knife, carve out a large chunk of pancake, and stuff it into my mouth. It tastes like ash, like nothing, but I force myself to swallow through my constricting throat. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Piers hesitate before digging into his eggs and bacon and sausage and toast. There’s so much food there that I can’t fathom him eating it all, but the next thing I know, his plate is half empty, and mine is too.

Perhaps being half choked and slashed to death gave me more of an appetite than I realized.

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