Page 35 of Kingpin's Secret Baby

But for now, I just hold her, my arms wrapped tightly around her, my heart beating steadily with hers. This is where I belong. This is where she belongs. And nothing and no one is going to take that away from us.

Chapter 17

Fantasia

The scent of fresh coffee and something warm, buttery, and far too indulgent drifts through the air, tugging me from sleep. For a moment, I'm disoriented- the bed is too soft, the morning light too bright through unfamiliar windows. Then the events of yesterday crash over me in waves: the fight at the motel, our escape to the mountains, and... Piers.

My body is exhausted but sated, heavy with an ache that has nothing to do with my wound and everything to do with the way Piers had held me, touched me, wrecked me in every way I had wanted.

My lips part on a breath as memories surface- Piers’s hands on my hips, his mouth everywhere, his thick voice murmuring my name.

I should feel regret. And maybe some part of me does, deep down, but it’s buried beneath layers of something more poignant. I exhale slowly, rubbing my eyes. This isn’t me. Lingering in bed, savoring a morning. But then again, neither is surrendering to Piers.

This- whatever this is- was inevitable. It always has been.

The words,Did you keep your promise?are playing over and over in my head.

Sixteen years old. Sitting on the roof of Wesley Hall with Piers, staring up at the night sky while the city lights burned in the distance. A plate of golden scones, swiped from the kitchen where Piers had helped Chef Rocco bake them, sat between us- not that either of us ate much. The buttery scent still lingered in the air, rich and comforting, as if the warmth of the oven had followed them with us. The night had been sticky with London’s rare summer heat, and I’d been restless. Something inside me had been shifting, breaking free from childhood wants and tumbling into something much more dangerous.

I had blurted the words out without thinking.

“I don’t want it to be just anyone.”

Piers had been quiet for a long moment, his profile illuminated by the glow of his cigarette as he followed the movement of the clouds. “Yeah?”

“I want to wait,” I admitted, wrapping my arms around my knees. “For someone who actually matters.”

He had gone still beside me. “And who’s that?” he asked, voice low and unreadable.

And I, foolish girl that I was, smirked. “You.”

I didn’t need to see his face to know he was grinning. I felt his finger nudge my bare shoulder, a light shove that had no real force behind it. “Fantasia, you’re too young,” he said, his voice dripping with teasing amusement.

I frowned, turning until his eyes found mine in the dim moonlight. “Then I’ll wait,” I said simply.

His jaw flexed, like he was trying to keep himself from speaking, but in the end, he had reached out, brushing a slow knuckle along my cheek. I held perfectly still, afraid that one wrong move would break the spell.

Finally, his voice rough and almost pained, he whispered, “You’ve got your whole life ahead of you, Fantasia. You shouldn’t wait for anyone.”

Even then, I had known what I wanted. Even then, I had known it could only be him.

And now, years later, far from the halls of Wesley and the ghosts of our childhood, he’d finally taken me like I always dreamed- like I always needed.

I hadn’t said the words aloud then, and I hadn’t admitted them now, but Piers had been the only boy I ever wanted to claim me. And now, he was the only man I could ever imagine touching me again.

The scent of bacon drags me back to the present. I shift onto my side, wincing at the dull pull of my wound, and glance beside me at the empty bed. Warmth still lingers in the sheets, but Piers is gone.

I push myself upright, hissing as pain radiates from my side. The sheets slip down my body, cool air brushing over my bare skin. My attention snags on the neatly folded clothes at the edge of the bed- my sweats.

I reach for the clothes, slipping the sweatshirt over my head first. I tug the sweatpants on next, wincing as the movement pulls at my sore muscles. Once dressed, I take a slow breath, testing my balance before moving toward the door and head downstairs.

The cabin is quiet, save for the distant hum of a spatula scraping against a pan.

Piers stands at the stove, his hair is still tousled from sleep, wearing nothing but a pair of sweatpants that ride low on his hips. He moves with an effortless kind of control, flipping slices of bacon before grabbing a plate. The sight of him- broad shoulders shifting, muscles playing beneath tanned skin- does something terrible to my already precarious state of mind.

My stomach knots.

Because this feels dangerously domestic.

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