Ruined Castles (The Elite King's Club 8)

I smile up at him, pouring the orange liquid into my glass. I pick up my fork. “So, I’m pregnant.”

Jesse coughs around a mouthful, banging his chest with his fist. “Shit. Sorry.” He takes a swig of his beer, his eyes flying around the room before he turns to face me slightly. “Mad, is that why you came here? I mean, I’m not a fan of your man, but running away with his kid isn’t the way to go…”

I shake my head, tears rolling down my cheek as I twirl the noodles around the tines of my fork. “I don’t know if it’s his, J.”

He doesn’t say anything, so I carry on. Jesse reminds me of a male version of Tillie. Non-judgmental and takes no shit.

“I, uh something happened to me.” I scoop the first mouthful and chew. Unfortunately, I eat when I’m stressed, and I’m stressed and hungry right now. My stomach rumbles from the first taste, but I swipe the residue from my lips with my thumb. “So now I don’t know if he is the father, and he hates me right now, J. If he finds out that I’m pregnant, he might do something to harm the baby.”

“Madison,” Jesse breathes out, his hand on my knee.

Jesse and I are platonic. I would go as far as to say that we were best friends in a past life.

“It’s okay. You stay with me for as long as you need. You don’t have to talk about shit until you’re ready, okay?”

I smile, swallowing past my tears as the muscles in my shoulders release some of the stress they’ve been carrying. “Thank you, Jesse. Truly.”

We continue to eat in comfortable silence, until the song switches and Jesse has finished his plate. He starts humming to the song with his finger tapping the back of my chair.

“Who is this band?” I ask from behind my shoulder.

“Six60. You like?”

I nod, pushing away my empty plate. “I do. Good music.”

Sleeping is hard. Even being in Jesse’s house, I find myself struggling to do anything but replay the last twenty-four hours in my head like a bad movie that refuses to end. I could have killed myself and never known. The more I think about it, the more I find myself getting twisted and knotted in the range of emotions that I certainly do not want.

I turn my head to the bedside table. My American phone is off, but I know everyone will know I’m gone by now. I turn it on and wait as my global roaming kicks in. Texts come through one at a time.

Tillie.

Tate.

Tate.

Tate.

Tillie.

Tillie.

Dad.

Dad.

Closing my eyes, I tap on Dad’s first. I have people there who can take care of you, baby. Just say the word.

I close my eyes and bring my phone to my heart, a single tear sliding down the side of my temple. My dad, the protector. The man who will always be on my side.

My fingers fly over the keyboard. Thanks, Dad. I’m ok for now.

I know at any other time, turning on my phone is just like turning on a single tracking device, but something deep inside of me knows that this time…

Bishop won’t be coming for me.

I WAKE UP THE NEXT morning, checking the time on my phone through cracked lids. Two p.m. God. Jet lag is a real thing when you travel across the world.

Curling my arms beneath my pillow, I sink farther into the bed and close my eyes. Twenty-four hours ago could have been my death date, but this baby—this baby saved me. The more I think about all that I left behind, the more I realize how much I could have lost. Even though right now, it doesn’t seem like they care very much. I know I’m being needy, bratty, and a little conceited, but I can’t help the way I feel. How the hold on my heart just seems to expand the more I’m away, but the thought of knowing I am pregnant gives me a reason to do it.

There’s a light knock on my door. “Come in,” I mumble around my coiled thoughts. It’s probably Jesse with yet another four-course meal.

“Fuck!” a girl’s voice grunts, shocking me to look over my shoulder. “I told that stupid motherfucker that you’d still be asleep and that you’re not dead.” She has ash brown hair, blue eyes, tanned skin, and a tattoo that sneaks up the side of her neck. Swirls of curls and pattern work. Jesse once told me what they call it here—Tamoko. It’s a traditional Maori tattoo that is an honor to have to showcase your ancestry.

I chuckle, shuffling up my bed while pulling my sheets up with me. “It’s okay. Typical Jesse, always—”

“—freaking out, right?” she finishes for me, leaning against the doorframe and crossing her ankles. White linen pants and a loose crop top, there’s something effortless in the way she carries herself. She’s older than me, I’d say by a couple of years at least, but she’s graceful. “I’m Grace.”