Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 82018 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 410(@200wpm)___ 328(@250wpm)___ 273(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82018 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 410(@200wpm)___ 328(@250wpm)___ 273(@300wpm)
“So this is what is going to happen, babe.” Only Nate could call me babe through lips that are seething with rancor. “I didn’t kill your stupid fucking sister, because it turns out that I didn’t need to.”
I step backward. “What do you mean?” My grip around Micaela tightens.
“I mean,” he says, countering my step. “She’s not a Stuprum, Tillie, she’s not Katsia’s daughter.”
I freeze. “What? That’s not right. She’s always been there. She’s my sister.”
Nate tilts his head. “You have the same dad but different mom. She’s been kicked onto the street by The Operation. They want nothing to do with her and in fact, she will probably be dead by the end of the week.”
“I don’t understand.”
Nate shakes his head slowly, his eyes darkening on me. “You’re going to give my mom Micaela until we sort this out.”
“Fuck you,” I spit, squeezing her into my arms again.
“Pass, thanks, and Tillie, shut the fuck up and let me finish.” His hands reach out to her. “This is the only way we’re going to keep her safe for now. Stop being so fucking selfish.”
I falter, his words penetrating my brain like a broken record. Is he right? Am I being selfish for keeping her in my arms even if it means sacrificing all that she could be.
No. She’s my daughter. Mine. The best thing a daughter can have is her mother, not money or opportunity.
Nate must’ve been able to read my expression, because his eyes darken on me. His shoulders pull back and his legs spread, his stance switching. It’s as though I’m watching a dark cloud sneak into a warm summer’s day, sucking in all of the sunshine and replacing it with gloom.
“You don’t have a choice, Tillie, she’s my daughter just as much as she’s yours, and now shit has changed.”
“What? What has changed?”
“Give her to me.” I’m too busy trying to figure out what he had just said that I aimlessly hand her to him.
“What do you mean, Nate?”
The doors open behind him and all of The Kings stand in a line.
I gulp, my eyes going back to Nate. “What are you going to do with me?”
He steps forward, kissing Micaela’s head. “Get upstairs and go to my room.”
I rush past him, annoyed with not just him but myself for allowing myself to get into this position to begin with. The control I craved for my daughter starts to slip between the cracks because he’s right. She’s just as much his as she is mine. I have no right to be the only person calling the shots when it comes to her livelihood. I have to learn how to share her time between us.
I shove his door open and freeze, the sight in front of me falters not just my footsteps but all thoughts of cussing Nate out too. There, in the midst of Nate’s bachelor-slash-skanky ass room of red paint, black silk sheets—hopefully freaking washed—is a matte black crib. It has black blankets and bright pink sheets and the curve of it is more of an oval than a rectangle.
A pang of guilt crashes into me. I haven’t given Nate a chance to be a father, sure, but I’ve barely myself been a mother. I’m constantly failing at it. I could bring it down to my age, or circumstance, but not every situation is ideal. I just have to find a way to cope with what fits my current predicament.
“Shhhh.” Nate rocks Micaela, shooting me daggers as he enters. Her small little face is tilted backward, her cherub lips parted as she snores softly in the safety of his arms.
Nate yanks his eyes away from me, taking the disdain with him and I watch as his features soften when he looks back at his daughter. There has never been a delusional part of me that thought just because Nate and I have a baby together that we would just miraculously get on and would be a happy family. This family is not like others, and our world, the one we live in, plays a big part in this. Luckily, Micaela is still a baby, so she’s not old enough to see how toxic her parents are. Hopefully we can sort something out before she starts talking and her first word is “fuck.”
When he places her into her crib, he reaches for the TV remote and turns it on. My eyes shoot to where Michaela sleeps peacefully. He turns the volume to a medium level, enough for us to talk and not wake her.
“I’m not sleeping in here, Nate,” I finally say as he removes his heavy boots and tosses them into the corner.
He reaches for the collar of his shirt, pulling it over his head. I notice there’s no blood on his clothes, but I see droplets of it behind his neck and on his hands. I know they fight shirtless for this reason, but something pangs in my chest and I need to know. “What happened tonight?”