Page 38 of Kingpin's Secret Baby

“Come on,” he says. “Let’s get that gauze changed, and then maybe we can play some chess. I’ll let you win- if you're lucky.”

I take his hand and let him pull me to my feet, knowing full well I’m about to decimate him… luck has nothing to do with it.

Chapter 18

Piers

We hike the same trail every morning. The first time, Fantasia barely made it half a mile before she had to stop, hands braced on her knees, cursing me under her breath. Now, she pushes through, her pace steady, her breath controlled.

She still glares at me when I make her go farther.

But she doesn’t stop.

I haven’t asked Fantasia what she wants to do next, haven’t prodded. Sometimes it’s not important to know, and after going through everything she’s gone through, I think she’s happier to just… exist.

Three weeks have passed since I brought Fantasia to this cabin, and every day we’ve spent here has felt too surreal to be real. It’s peaceful in a way neither of us is used to, filled with still mornings and quiet comforts. Nights are even warmer- me buried deep inside her, claiming her over and over until she forgets there was ever a world outside our cabin.

I know I’m going to get hell when I finally answer Achilles’s calls. But right now, I don’t care. And I don’t care about checking in on Wesley Hall either. I prefer spending every minute I can with Fantasia, taking her on hikes to build her strength back up and to instill a fierce love of the outdoors. We play chess and read books in quiet companionship and drink grape juice served in wine glasses to ease her withdrawals.

It hasn’t been smooth sailing though. One night, she clutched the wine glass with shaking hands before setting it down and burying her face in her hands, whispering, “I hate this. I hate all of it.” And another night she hurled the wine glass into the fire, the flames hissing as she yelled, “I’m tired of pretending this is enough!” But I remained calm. I didn’t flinch when she lashed out, didn’t try to fix it with empty reassurances. I just sat beside her, waiting. Letting her anger burn itself out, letting the silence settle like the ashes in the fire.

The dirt path winds up the hillside, past moss-covered boulders and towering pines. The air is cool, crisp, carrying the scent of damp earth and pine needles. A hawk cries in the distance, the sound sharp against the silence between us.

She’s not one for small talk out here. Not that I mind.

It’s peaceful.

When we reach the top, she doesn’t hesitate, stepping onto the rocky outcrop and tilting her face toward the sun.

Yesterday, Fantasia made it up the trail without stopping, she didn’t say a word. Just stood at the top, hands on her hips, looking out over the forest like she owned it. Like she’d conquered it.

I didn’t congratulate her. Didn’t tell her I was proud.

Didn’t have to.

The satisfaction in her eyes was enough.

She moves with more confidence, though there’s still a noticeable hesitation in her steps, as if her body is catching up with her resolve. The strength she lost returning in increments, her body regaining the muscle and weight she lost over months of self-destruction. She’s not where she was before, but she’s getting there. And watching her fight her way back- watching her refuse to be weak- feels like watching a storm build on the horizon.

Beautiful.

Dangerous.

Unstoppable.

At the summit, the trees thin out, opening up to an outcropping of rock that overlooks the valley below. I stop a few steps behind her, letting her take it in. Her chest rises and falls, her breath still uneven, but she doesn’t complain.

“Not bad,” I say.

She scoffs, shooting me a glare over her shoulder. “Not bad?”

I smirk. “You’ve done worse.”

Fantasia rolls her eyes, but she doesn’t argue. Just turns her gaze back to the view, arms crossed.

A breeze sweeps past us, lifting strands of her dark hair, and she closes her eyes like she’s letting it fill her up. She’s still pale and thin, but a shimmer of color is returning to her cheeks… and she’s here. Alive. Stronger than she was.

I step closer, drawn in before I realize I’m moving.

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