Page 67 of The Kings
“Come on, pick up,” I mutter under my breath as the phone rings once, twice, an endless loop of hollow beeps mocking my desperation. I pace the length of my bedroom, the lavishness of it feeling like a cage now, trapping me with questions that demand answers.
“Answer the damn phone,” I growl, half-hopeful, half-terrified of what his voice might reveal if he does. The call cuts off, and silence descends—no comforting words, noexplanations, just the cold dread that settles in my stomach like lead.
I shove the phone back onto the table, harder than necessary and continue pacing, the plush carpet doing nothing to cushion the restless energy that’s got a chokehold on me. My mind’s a whirlwind of questions with no fucking answers.
Hissing, I stop short in front of the full-length mirror. My reflection stares back, those sharp green eyes usually so full of fire now clouded with doubt about everything.
This brother of mine, if it’s true, if he’s blood, it changes everything. My chestnut waves tumble over my shoulders as I shake my head, reminding me so much of my mother. I look exactly like her; everyone says so. Then there is this possible brother who looks exactly like my dad.Ourdad.
Sinking down onto the edge of my bed, the walls of my bedroom close in, and I feel the distance I’ve put between myself and the men. This isn’t something I can blurt out to them. Not yet. I need to know what is going on first. I know they’re looking for answers about what went down, but I can’t until I know for sure.
My mind is a battlefield trying to figure this shit out. Why does this guy despise me? What kind of brother hunts his own blood?
Memories of my mother’s laughter, a sound that used to fill the halls of our home, haunt me. Her absence is a wound that never healed, a relentless reminder of what loss feels like. Since her death, love just isn’t something I can do, terrified of the agony that comes when it’s ripped away.
Tears blur my vision, hot and unyielding as they stream down my face. I’m curled up on the bed, arms wrapped around my knees—my body’s attempt to hold itself together when every cell screams to fall apart as my mother’s face swims behind my eyes, having been pushed to the back of my mind for so long.Loving anyone is like stepping off a cliff, with no guarantee of survival.
Sobs rack my body until there’s nothing left, just a hollow echo of lies built on more lies. How could Dad do this to me? How could he never tell me he had a son? This has ruined me on a level I can’t even comprehend. I’m completely undone by the things I was raised to wield like weapons. Love. Family. Trust.
All gone in the blink of an eye.
Well, a blink for me. They have obviously known forever.
In the solitude of my room, the fortress of my making, I cry for the little girl who lost her mother, for the woman who fears to love, for the chaos of a life that never asked if I wanted any part of it. As the tears soak into the pillow, I let go, just for a moment, of the need to be anything more than human.
A faint knock at my door jolts me from the vulnerability of my grief, and I’m up in a flash, wiping away tears with the back of my hand.
“What?” I call out, voice rough from the crying.
The door opens slowly, and Tarquin’s head peeks in, concern etched on every handsome feature.
“You’ve been holed up here for hours,” he says softly. “We’re worried about you.”
My heart stutters at his presence, and my muscles tense and relax equally. “I’m fine,” I lie through gritted teeth.
Tarquin’s eyes scan my face, seeing right through me. “Bullshit,” he retorts, closing the distance between us with confident strides. “Talk to me, Eliza.”
I shake my head. “Not now, Tarq. This is family shit—stuff I need to sort out on my own.”
He frowns, but nods understandingly. “If you need anything, just let us know, ‘kay?”
Nodding, I murmur, “I will, but right now, I just need to be alone.”
He sighs and backs out, probably relieved I didn’t bite his head off. I amuse myself for a moment, wondering if they drew straws to see who would come up here.
As the door clicks shut, I’m left again in the silence of my room. But it’s different now that Tarquin’s been here; my space feels renewed somehow with the reminder that I’m never truly alone, not with these men around who claim pieces of my heart whether I want them to or not.
Fuck it. I rise from the bed, wiping my face again. I can’t sit here drowning in my sorrows—it’s not who I am. I don’t crumble; I rebuild, brick by bloody brick.
Heading to the bathroom, I splash cold water on my face until the girl in the mirror looks more like a Hughes and less like a fucking wreck.
“A Hughes,” I murmur. “What does that even mean anymore? Damn you, Dad. What the fuck is this shit?”
But he’s not here to answer. Until he is, there really isn’t much I can fucking do about it.
32
JAMES
