Page 30 of Kingpin's Secret Baby

The exit we take becomes rougher and rougher as we go deeper into the mountains until we’re driving on nothing but dirt. Up ahead, the trees clear enough to show us a small lodge covered in overgrown shrubs, with a large sign for Cupid’s Valley Honeymoon Cabins dominating the porch. We pull onto the empty stretch of gravel in front of it, and when Piers turns the car off, he gives me a firm look.

His eyes soften, just a little, as they pass over the bruise on my jaw.

“Can I trust you to stay here while I grab the keys?”

“As tempting as it is to rush off into the mountains and be eaten by a bear?” I ask dryly. Piers doesn’t crack a smile in response, and I feel a shocking ache in my chest, like I’ve failed at something.

“I’ll be right back,” he says, and slams the door behind him.

What the hell am I doing? We’re on the run, hiding from enemies I didn’t even know I had until yesterday, and the only person I can rely on is the man I once swore to destroy.

I glance down at my side, where the dull ache of my stitches tugs with every breath, a reminder of just how fragile I am right now. Running isn’t an option. Even if it were, where would I go? What would I do?

The truth hits me harder than I’d like to admit: I have no one else.

I’ve been fighting Piers at every turn, but for what? He’s risked everything to keep me alive. He’s stayed by my side even when I’ve made it as difficult as humanly possible. And despite my protests, I know deep down that I’m safer with him than I’d ever be on my own.

The car door opens, pulling me out of my thoughts. Piers slides back into the driver’s seat, dangling a keyring with a large heart-shaped fob between his fingers.

“Cupid’s Valley,” I say, giving the sign a once-over. “How fitting.”

His brow arches. “For two fugitives pretending to be married and hiding out in a honeymoon cabin? Yeah, it’s poetic.”

I smirk. “At least now yourwifehas a place to rest her delicate head.”

He chuckles low in his throat, starting the car and steering it toward the cabin marked on the fob. “Delicate, huh? I must’ve missed that part between the death glares and sharp comebacks.”

“Well, you’re still here, so I must be doing something right.”

The corner of his mouth twitches, but he lets it drop.

Our cabin is made of warm wood slats and floor-to-ceiling windows, with a wraparound porch that gives us a stunning view of rolling mountain valleys no matter which direction we’re facing. For a moment, it feels surreal- too serene, too perfect- like we’ve stumbled into someone else’s dream.

Piers moves ahead of me, his gaze sweeping the area like a hunter scoping for prey. I linger by the door.

“Stay behind me,” Piers mutters, his hand brushing against mine as he pushes the door open. The cabin interior is just as stunning- polished wood, soft light, and a roaring fire already burning in the hearth.

Before I can fully take it all in, a sudden movement catches my eye from the kitchen. My heart leaps into my throat as a man in a crisp white chef’s jacket steps out, carrying a tray of steaming dishes.

Piers reacts instantly, his hand flying to his sidearm. The metallic click of the safety being released.

The man freezes mid-step, his eyes widening as he takes in Piers’s drawn weapon. Slowly, he raises one hand, the tray tilting precariously with the other. “Monsieur, please! I am only the chef!” he blurts out, his French accent thick and his tone a mix of fear and indignation.

Piers doesn’t lower the gun. His eyes remain locked on the man, his body tense and ready to strike. “You’re the chef?” he demands, his voice cold and measured.

“Oui! Oui! A private chef, hired to prepare your dinner. That is all!” The man jerks his chin toward the tray in his hand, his sharp mustache twitching. “Please, monsieur, do not shoot! The sauce took hours to perfect.”

Piers’s grip doesn’t waver, but I can see the gears turning in his head, analyzing every detail of the man in front of him.

“Piers,” I say softly, placing a hand on his arm. “I think he’s telling the truth.”

After a beat that feels like an eternity, Piers lowers the gun, though he doesn’t holster it. “You should’ve announced yourself,” he mutters, his tone still laced with suspicion.

The chef exhales sharply, the tension in his posture easing as he adjusts the tray in his hands. “My apologies, monsieur. I did not mean to startle you.” His sharp smile returns, though it’s decidedly more cautious now. “You must be Mr. and Mrs. Patrick Donovan!” he exclaims, setting the tray on the dining table with exaggerated care.

I bristle at the title. When did we become an American couple?

Piers clears his throat. “Just- uh, Patrick is fine.”

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