by RJ Blain
Sometimes, watching her hurt because I only saw Dylan in her, and she reminded me, day by day, of what I’d gained and lost. Whenever I considered finding someone new so she could have a father, so I could close the loopholes to keep her safe, I hesitated.
No one could replace Dylan. In one day, he’d painted the picture of being the perfect man, and almost eleven years later, I hadn’t been able to shake the feeling I’d found my one and only and, thanks to my caste, had lost him.
I didn’t want to settle, so I wouldn’t. I took the biggest risk of my life, living without the security I’d keep custody of my daughter.
While tempted to ask Mireya why she hesitated, I continued to wait, fighting the urge to hold my breath.
My daughter lifted her chin. “I turn ten today, and all I want for my birthday is to know about my father.”
If her words had been swords, she would’ve left the mutilated husk of my body bleeding out on the hardwood floor. I understood her worry.
We didn’t talk about her father, and the first—and last—time she’d asked, her question had cut so deep I’d cried, something I tried to avoid around her. My little miracle deserved a perfect world, and I worked each and every day to give it to her.
I wouldn’t cry, nor would I deny her. She was old enough to ask the question.
She was old enough to hear the answer.
“All right. Let’s go down to the cafe, have breakfast, and talk about your father.”
Mireya’s eyes widened so much I worried they’d pop out of her pretty head. “You mean it?”
“You may not like what I’m going to tell you, but I’ll tell you.”
Mireya spun and bolted for the hallway. “Don’t forget to put your scarf over your nose, Mom! The hallway’s cold today. I already checked.”
I chuckled, dutifully bundled up, grabbed my purse, and paused long enough to stare at the box on my dresser, which still contained the prizes from the auction. I’d discovered my phone inside after my arrival in Texas, and I used it despite its status as an antique, choosing to repair parts and replace batteries instead of retiring it. I couldn’t wear the watch; between the gold and titanium, just looking at it gave me hives.
After breakfast, I’d give it to Mireya. While Dylan hadn’t been involved with the luck of the draw, I only had it because of him. I would’ve left the ballroom without claiming my prizes.
I’d show her the other things, too, including the chip card from the auction. Maybe my daughter would be able to find a fairy tale in our story despite my inability to give her what she truly desired. I didn’t want to tell her the truth, that a drug company’s mistake had resulted in her life, but I would.
She deserved the truth. On paper, she was a null, but one day, she’d grow into her power—into Dylan’s power, whatever that was.
I could only hope I was woman enough to handle the burden of a young woman struggling with new magic I had no chance of helping her control.
If I repeated myself often enough, would I believe that since she was old enough to ask her questions, she was old enough to handle the answers? I hoped so. I found some comfort in the knowledge my daughter would understand I wouldn’t put her up on auction like my mother had, although I’d never complain about the results.
Fear of losing Mireya had kept me from contacting my parents; I hadn’t spoken to either of them since before the auction. If they found out about her, they’d be a more dangerous enemy than the anti-null laws I battled daily.
Neither approved of single mothers, and if they thought they could get away with it, they’d take her away from me to raise her in an appropriate environment, one without me in it. As always, my guilt raised its head, and I doubted every choice I’d made in my life since driving to New York with a ticket to become an elite man’s fling for charity.
Maybe one day I wouldn’t be a coward. I still retained my New York citizenship, lacking any other options, but I drove halfway across Texas once a year to mail tax documents so I’d be harder to find—and I used a drop box as my residence to keep the New York government from easily locating me.
It was all I could do to protect Mireya, and with a heavy heart, I followed my daughter to the elevators and down to the marble lobby and adjacent cafe. Mireya bounced on her way in, beelining for her favorite booth, which was tucked in the quietest corner of the place, perfect for reading.
When I could spare the money, she got a sundae and studied, lost to the world for hours while I worked on my phone and tried to ignore everyone who stared at my ultra-focused child.
Plopping onto the cushion, Mireya bounced until the cafe’s waitress, Sammy, came to our table, and I fought my urge to chuckle at how my little girl could be so excited to have breakfast at the one place she could go almost any time she wanted, which wasn’t often.
She understood how the world—and money—worked.
“Waffles, please!” she chirped, pointing at the cafe’s most popular offering, a massive stack of waffles that could easily feed three.
“And you, Miss Little?” Sammy smiled at me.
“Coffee.”
“As black as you like to pretend your heart is?” she asked.
“I brought a child sacrifice, and I’m plumping her up. Got an extra dark roast?”
Laughing, Sammy shook her head. “I’ll tell the boss you’re still looking for a cup of sludge. Maybe he’ll indulge you for your birthday this year.”
“Mom, that’s gross,” my daughter complained. “And you wouldn’t sacrifice me. I’m too cute.”
I shrugged and held my hands up in surrender. “You heard it from the boss, Sammy. I can’t sacrifice her because she’s too cute.”
“That she is. I’ll be right back, y’all.”
While I usually drank my coffee black, I waited for Mireya’s waffles to arrive and stole the chocolate syrup, doctoring my drink until it was a disgustingly sweet monstrosity. Since I didn’t drink, and hadn’t since the night of the auction, I’d hope the sugar would get me through the conversation I had delayed for so long.
Mireya inhaled her food, pausing long enough to gulp her milk so she wouldn’t choke. In five minutes flat, she’d scarfed down all but one waffle, slumping in her seat with a groan.
I arched a brow, snagged her plate, and pulled it to me, arming myself with her fork and knife. “I’m impressed. I was certain you’d leave at least three.”
My spawnling groaned again, and as she was unable to defend her last waffle, I smacked my lips to drive her up a wall, took a bite, and sucked the syrup off the fork.
To go along with her insane intellect, my daughter had a serious case of misophonia. Slurping, lip smacking, and the sounds of someone eating drove my daughter to the brink of madness, and while I wasn’t a fan of the noises, either, I wielded them like the potent weapons they were.
I could, with a single slurp, bring a tantrum to an end with the threat of additional audible torture.
“Mom,” she complained. “That’s gross. Stop that.”
“So easy.” Since it was her birthday, I refrained from slurping my coffee, although I lifted a brow and held my cup up menacingly so she’d understand I had the upper hand for a change. “So, you want to know about your father.”
Mireya sat up, and her eyes widened. “Yes.”
“And you solemnly swear you won’t indulge in a public temper tantrum when you don’t like what you hear?”
“I’ll wait until we’re home, promise.”
My daughter was many things, but she was true to her word. She’d wait until we got home, and the instant I closed the door, the howling would begin. If I got lucky, the howling would only be an exercise in her vocal chords.
If I truly angered her, she’d systematically remind me of my every failing as a parent, and because she was smarter than I was, a hell of a lot more ruthless, and far too clever for her own good, she’d bludgeon me with the truth.
It was hard to argue with a ten-year-old when she was right.
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“All right. I attended a charity auction, and your father outbid the rest of the competition, making for an exceptionally happy charity.”
If Mireya’s eyes widened any further, they’d pop out of her head. “How much?”
I loved my practical, worldly daughter, who understood money didn’t grow on trees for the majority of people, who ate pancakes for three because she couldn’t stand the thought of wasting food, and knew she could financially cripple me on her birthday if she asked, which she didn’t. “Forty-eight million dollars.”
Her mouth dropped open, and a strangled squeak emerged.
“I don’t regret it,” I said, my worries she’d hate me for what I’d done strengthening with every breath. “Our birth control failed.”
“Our?” she asked, pouncing on the slip with the ferociousness of a guard dog after an intruder.
Damn it, my daughter was too smart for her own good. “Our. We both used birth control. Same brand, bad batch. And thus, your mother single handedly ruins all of your hopes for some romantic fairy tale. Your father was a handsome gentleman and enjoyed annoying the hell out of me. Unfortunately, he introduced himself using a fake name. When I found out I was pregnant with you, I did try to contact him, but no one could find him. I’m sorry.”
“My father bought you at a charity auction for forty-eight million dollars.”
The skepticism in her voice coaxed a laugh out of me. “He even said I was worth every penny and then some, too.”
“Really?”
Maybe if he hadn’t, maybe if things had been different, I wouldn’t still be stuck on him almost eleven years later. “Really. I guess he knew we wouldn’t be seeing each other again. Before the auction, he’d been my boss, but I’d quit my job. Your grandmother arranged for me to go to the auction. I guess she wanted me to marry into some wealthy family so I wouldn’t just be another null.”
My daughter snorted. “I’m impressed you went at all. You give people the stink eye whenever they suggest you should get married. They’re lucky you’re a null, because otherwise you’d incinerate them for stupidly opening their mouths.”
I couldn’t have asked for a better chance to tell her the complete truth, and I sighed. “One day, you’re not going to be a null, Mireya. Your father was an elite.”
“Is,” she corrected.
Torn between flinching and tears, I choked all my emotions back, locked them deep inside, and sighed, nodding. “Your father is an elite.”
“Doesn’t change anything,” she replied, flipping her hand in the most blatant of her dismissals. “If I develop super powers, every elite man on the block will want in your pants wanting a child of their own just like me. Then they’ll realize I’m smarter than they are and run away before doing their duty as potential sperm donors for your young army.”
Where had I gone wrong raising my daughter? Had it been my choice of movies while she was still impressionable? Her unlimited access to the library? Maybe I had indulged in one too many theoretical discussions of how best we could take over the world as a mother-daughter team. “My young army?”
“Obviously, I’ll be the general, as I’m the oldest. I need minions, so you need to find an appropriate sperm donor. You can select him based on his appearances and genetic contribution, but you don’t have to keep him if he’s a jerk. If he’s nice, I’m going to have to insist on permanent enslavement.”
“Mireya, what have I told you about calling men sperm donors?”
“To not do it? But Mom, you ignore them as potential husband material. You need their services if I’m going to have a sibling army.”
Under no circumstances could I let my daughter meet my parents. It would be war, and the real loser of the battle would be me. No matter what I did, it’d be a nightmare. At least the truth would serve me there, too, although I hoped my daughter wouldn’t want to meet her grandparents. “Your grandparents would not be happy with that. They’re the traditional type, and they don’t believe single mothers have any business caring for a child on their own. Producing an entire army of children out of wedlock would put me on the top of their Most Wanted Criminal list. That’s also why we go across the kingdom every year to mail packages. They would try to take you from me.”
“But you’re my mom.”
“I know.” If only being her mother made me fit in the eyes of the law. Despite her intelligence, I still doubted she realized the real risk of me losing her existed. “Because of how I spent time with your father, they won’t find me to be a fit parent.”
“That’s absurd.”
“And now you know the truth.”
“Tell me about my father.”
“You have his eyes and hair. He liked hovering over my shoulder and watching me work, knowing it drove me nuts. I liked him well enough.”
I told my daughter the worst of lies, but if I confessed the truth, I really would cry and humiliate us both in public.
“Did you love him?”
Damn it, I truly had birthed a miniature demonic entity disguised as a human child. How was it she always asked the one question guaranteed to hurt the most? I took my time, debating with myself over what I—and she—could handle.
The truth would out. It always did. All hiding it would do would make it hurt worse later. “I did.”
“Do you regret keeping me?”
“No!” I turned every head in the cafe, and I grimaced at having blurted my answer so vehemently. “No,” I repeated, forcing my tone to be calmer. “I’ve never once regretted having you. Sure, I had to work a lot of extra hours to make it work, but you have a school fund, and we do all right. We’ll never be rich, but we’ll make it. Why would I regret keeping you?”
“Prince Samiel said so. He said single mothers are the slaves of society, and that they deserve better. He thinks I’m the reason you’re stuck at a dead-end job.”
I scowled. While I’d been aware a few Texan princes attended Mireya’s school, I hadn’t believed she’d met any of them. “Are they bullying you?”
Maybe the snobby little pipsqueaks had magic and could probably light my ass on fire rather literally, but I wasn’t above snarling at some upstart kid if he’d hurt my daughter’s feelings.
“Not really. I just tell them it’s a shame I get to go home and have my mom cook me dinner every night, then I spend a few minutes telling them how you help me with my homework, although I’m lying a little bit there. Really, I’m helping you understand my homework so you don’t feel bad. You always feel bad if you don’t help with my homework.”
“You’re the devil,” I hissed at my daughter.
The devil beamed at me. “I know. Aren’t I wonderful?”
“Well, you’re definitely a chip off the old block, that’s for sure. I can’t even tell if you’re a chip off my block or your father’s. Probably mine. I’m crude. I kneed a lady in the groin because she was drunk and was being rude to a gentleman. She may have tried to slap me, but let’s just say I was in a pair of jeans and she was wearing this awful monstrosity of a dress. She wanted to ruin me.” I made a thoughtful noise in my throat.
Dylan hadn’t let her, and I wasn’t sure what I thought about that despite the years.
“What happened?”
“Your father made it clear he wasn’t going to let her. She listened. Why? I don’t know.”
“Was she a princess?”
“Hell if I know, spawnling.”
“Is my father a prince?”
I needed to nip that bud before it could grow into a living nightmare. “I really don’t know, but probably not. Princes don’t come in high supply. What would a prince be doing working in a marketing department, anyway?”
“Good point. So, my father likely isn’t a prince. If we took a vacation in the summer, could we look for him? You got me my passport! You keep saying you want a car, too. We could take a road trip.”
My eyes widened. “You want to drive across North America on a wild goose chase searching for a man I
haven’t seen in a decade?”
“Can we?”
If my daughter ever asked me for something I couldn’t give her, I’d be so screwed. I considered my battered savings account, the little retirement fund I had, and the banked vacation days I could draw from. If I drained everything dry, I might be able to take her on a road trip, although I’d have to get a long-term rental because I couldn’t afford a car. “I’ll consider it if your grades are good. Be nice to those princes, too. If their mother doesn’t have time for them, they might be sad about it. Bullies hurt people when they can’t have something they truly need. It could be they love their mother very much and wish they could have more time with her.”
Mireya’s shoulders slumped. “I hadn’t thought of that.”
“While I’m certain you could spank them in a battle of wits, perhaps go the kill them with kindness route this time. Don’t let them see they’ve gotten to you, and be nice to them. It’ll probably make them uncomfortable. If it gets worse, I’ll deal with it.”
Maybe I was a null who got on the nerves of the Texan congress on a daily basis, but I wasn’t without allies, and some of those allies had the ear of the queen. If I had to make a pest out of myself, I would—and I wouldn’t let some spoiled princes deter me.
Mireya’s expression brightened. “Can I invite them over for dinner? You could cook for them since their mom can’t!”
Maybe I’d have to make use of one of my congressional contacts to save the Texan princes from my daughter. Once she got an idea in her head, she’d find some way to implement it behind my back if necessary, and unless I turned myself into a liar and bad example, she’d outmaneuvered me yet again.
What was I supposed to do if a prince came to my house? Or several princes? The Texan monarchs had six sons I knew of and two daughters, although I couldn’t remember their names on a good day.
I tended to ignore the royal family unless necessary, so much so I didn’t even know the names of the king or queen.
“Don’t be surprised if they reject your invitation, Mireya. I also refuse to entertain any whining if they’re assholes about it. If they get permission from their parents, I have no problems with it.”