Page 13 of Desert Loyalties
She wipes her cheek, almost absently.
“It was a small town. Everyone knew everyone. And they all knew me. Knew I was the bastard who killed her mom. I went to school with my siblings. They didn’t speak to me. Wouldn’t look at me. Other kids whispered, teased, called me trailer trash, homewrecker spawn and these are the nice ones. Teachers didn’t care, nobody cared.”
Her voice is shaking now, but her spine is straight. She’s lived this pain long enough to carry it well.
I feel it. Every word. Every memory. And I hate that she knows what it’s like to be that alone. That forgotten. That unloved.
I nod slowly, giving her space to let it all out. She’s not looking at me, she’s staring at the wall like it’s playing every memory she ever tried to bury.
She takes a shuddering breath. “This morning,” she says, voice flat but breaking around the edges. “I got an email. From my father.”
The wordfathersounds like acid in her mouth.
“Turns out his mother—thatwoman—has dementia. She’s in a home and apparently… she confessed. Or more like bragged. Told a nurse how she planned it. Said she was going to get a friend to run the DNA test and, when it came back negative, she’d use it to convince her son that I was a killer. That I was evil. That my mom’s death was my fault.”
My jaw clenches. I want to put my fist through a wall.
Skye’s voice gets thinner. “He said he’s been trying to track me down ever since. That a PI finally found my email through the college records. He wrote that he’d ‘love a chance to reconnect.’”
I don’t say anything yet. Just let the silence stretch so she knows she can keep going if she needs to.
She does.
“I used to dream about this,” she says. “When I was a kid, I’d lie in that creaky bunk bed and imagine him showing up. Saying it was all a mistake. Taking me away from the whispers and the pointing and the trailer with black mould in the bathroom.”
She looks down, blinking fast. “But it was never a mistake. Not to him.”
Then her voice lifts, furious, “Pissed,” she snaps. “I’mpissed, Drake.”
That’s the first time Skye has ever said my name.
“He owns hospitals.Hospitals. With anS. You’re telling me a man with that kind of money and resources couldn’t be bothered to run another fuckin’ test? No. He just believed her. Handed me over to two elderly alcoholics and never looked back.”
Her hands are shaking now, her knuckles white where they grip her thighs.
“Hewantedto believe I wasn’t his. It was easier than facing the fact that hedidblame me for his wife’s death. And now—now—after I’ve fought for every scrap of dignity I have, after I built something for myself out of nothing, he wants to ‘reconnect’?” Her laugh is bitter, sharp. “No. Fuck that. He doesn’t get to clear his conscience by checking in to make sure I’m breathing. I’m not his guilt project.”
I reach for her hand, not to pull or comfort, just to anchor. She lets me.
I speak low, steady. “You don’t owe him a damn thing.”
Her chin trembles, but she nods. Silent. Grateful, maybe.
“You’re not here because of him. You’re here becauseyousurvived,” I say. “Because you clawed your way through all the shit they threw at you and didn’t let it break you.”
She swipes at her eyes, still not crying. Tough as hell.
“I don’t need him,” she mutters.
“No,” I say. “But if you ever want someone to stand beside you while you tell him exactly what you just told me... I’m in.”
For a second, she says nothing. Just stares at me like she’s seeing something for the first time.
Then, slowly she leans in.
Her hand brushes my jaw, fingers trembling just a little, before she closes the distance. Her lips touch mine like a question, like she’s not sure if this is real. I answer her without words, tilting my head, deepening the kiss. It's not rough or rushed, not the kind I’ve avoided before, no this is slow, consuming.
Skye tastes like salt and stubbornness and something sweeter I can’t name. Her hand slides to my neck, fingers tangling in my hair. I wrap my arm around her waist and pull her onto my lap, never breaking the kiss. Her chest presses to mine, soft curves against hard edges, and I swear to God, I feel something shift in my damn chest.
