If you impregnated me, I will throw myself off my balcony because I would rather die than bear your child.
I wonder if she’d actually do that.
I wonder if she’s actually pregnant.
If she’s not…
I stare at the half empty glass, turning it in my hand as I turn an idea over in my mind.
Despite the fact that a child would be half Isla and her treacherous, filthy DNA, it would still be half Isla. The Isla she was. The one I loved to the very depths of my soul.
I recall with perfect clarity the enchanting, endearing little girl she was. That magical little creature that had stolen my heart even before my earliest memory. And maybe our child would grow into a person devoid of the duplicitous flaw that ruined Isla and caused her to ruin everything we had. And maybe having a child would bring me a semblance of solace. Maybe a child would fill the void of love I have been suffering without since she destroyed me.
We had always wanted a baby. So many circumstances stole the opportunity to have one from us.
But now, staring into the amber liquid in the glass, I realize I have an opportunity to not only give myself that gift, but also exact revenge against Isla that would be truly fitting for the misery she put me through.
MALACHI
Twenty Years Old
ISLA FOUND OUT SHE was pregnant the week her family left for their annual summer excursion to Los Cabos.
On some level, we both knew we were kind of fucked. But we were too excited and happy to care about the consequences of an out-of-wedlock pregnancy while I was still a year from graduation and she was about to start her freshman year.
So what? College could take a backseat for both of us, and then we would be able to finally have what we’d been longing for for years.
Marriage. To each other. And a baby on the way.
The future beckoned with love and joy, and it was brighter than ever.
Our parents were going to want to kill us both, but we had the whole summer to figure out how to break the news to them, and then they would just have to get over it.
But…
They never had to just get over it.
And we never had to figure out how to tell them.
Because just shy of one month after the happy little plus sign appeared on a plastic stick, I woke up next to Isla in blood-soaked sheets.
Her typically warm, tawny skin had blanched to an unnatural pallid shade, and she was trembling so violently that I thought she was having a seizure.
“Amor… Malachi… Amor… help… help… help.”
I would have done anything to save or protect Isla, up to and including kill a man, or lay down my own life, or both, or worse. But there wasn’t anything I could do to save her—save us—from this.
All I could do was wrap a towel around her waist, wrap the rest of her in a blanket, carry her to my car, and then drive like a bat out of hell to the emergency room.
After about five hours and so many tears shed that Isla and I were both wasted, I drove us back to her house in a bleary-eyed haze while she slept in the passenger seat, curled up like a kitten, still pale and shivering.
I reached to lay my hand on her hip. “I’m sorry, baby.” She was sleeping, so she couldn’t hear me, but that didn’t matter. “I’m so sorry, baby girl. I love you so much, and I promise you that one day we’re going to have lots of beautiful babies.” A lump surged to the top of my throat and tears burned my eyes, but that didn’t matter either. “And they’re all going to have your beautiful hair and perfect smile. And we are going to be so happy. I know you’re sad right now. I’m sad, too. But we’re going to be so happy for the rest of our lives. I promise you.”
I was so naïve at the time that I believed there was literally nothing worse than this.
But fate is a cruel mistress, and she had so much more up her sleeve.
Isla slept straight through me carrying her inside and laying her on a sofa while I cleaned up the mess. She continued to sleep as I put her back in bed and wrapped her tight in the crisp, clean, white sheets. But I couldn’t sleep. Instead, I wrapped myself around her, over the sheets and blankets like I did when she was little and frightened and would crawl through my window in the middle of the night.
I thought of little Isla and how she had way too many moments in her young life that scared her so badly, and how she only deserved happiness, and that I was more than equipped to give her all the happiness in the world, but that there were still things out of my control.
And because of that, I vowed—for the umpteenth time in my life—that I would do everything in my earthly power to protect her from anything that might hurt her or steal her happiness.
I didn’t sleep, and it wasn’t long before the sheets were soaked again, this time with my own silent tears.
It was at around one in the morning that I heard activity from the other side of the house. I squinted at a far wall in confusion, stilling my breathing so I could listen.
The Reyeses weren’t supposed to return from Los Cabos for at least another month. Surely, if they had to cut the trip short for some reason, they would have told Isla.
There was a bump and clatter of something, and someone was definitely in the large house.
In preparation for my secret extended stay with Isla for our summer together, I considered the idea of all those chilling encounters I’d overheard Ernesto dealing with in the dead of night, and stowed the pistol he’d given me the year before in my bag. Isla still didn’t know he’d given it to me, such was my need to shield her from unnecessary ugliness in her life. Despite the fact that I was committed with my life to protect her, I didn’t want her to have to think about the fact that she even needed protection. But I knew, somewhere out there in the world, a threat to her was lurking in the darkness.
And right then, it was entirely possible that it was lurking in the darkness in this very house. So, I gingerly crawled out of bed, fished out the pistol, and silently slipped out of the room.
The voices conversing in Spanish grew more audible as I descended the staircase and slipped into the great room.
The two guys were a lot younger than I’d expected them to be. In my mind, when I’d overheard Ernesto’s confrontations with his cartel-involved relatives, I’d always assumed they were his age. These two were my age or possibly a year or two older. They were covered in tattoos, with thick, jet-black hair, and they were big. Piles of muscles. But even at only twenty, I had plenty of muscle and height as well. I also had a gun. Which was good foresight on my part, because so did they.
As soon as they spotted me, they drew their weapons.
“Put that shit away,” I snapped, because if they weren’t going to beat around the bush, neither was I, “and get the fuck out of this house.”
“Ay, cabron,” one of them retorted, “this is our uncle’s house. We’re welcome here. Who the fuck are you?”
The other one chuckled sardonically, bumping his compadre’s shoulder. “Yeah, yeah… if anyone needs to get the fuck out of this house, it looks like it’s you, ese.”
I threw my shoulders back and lifted my chin haughtily. “My name is Malachi Sterling, Duke of Corwick. My parents, King Andrew and Queen Deirdre, own the estate next door as our summer home.”
They both squinted, and the first guy curled his upper lip in bewildered confusion. “What, like a fuckin’ royal family?”