King of the South

by Read, Calia

  Table of Contents

  Other Titles by Calia Read

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  About The Author

  Copyright © 2020 by Calia Read

  First Edition: February 2020

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, locations, and incidents are products of the authors’ imaginations. Any resemblance to actual persons, things, living or dead, locales, or events is entirely coincidental.

  This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to retailer and purchase.

  Cover Design: Clarise Tan of CT Creations

  Editor: Jenny Sims of Editing 4 Indies

  Interior Design: Juliana Cabrera of Jersey Girl Design

  Other Titles by Calia Read

  Series

  Sloan Brothers

  Every Which Way • Breaking the Wrong • Ruin You Completely

  Fairfax

  Unravel • Unhinge

  Surviving Time

  The Surviving Trace • The Reigning and the Rule • Echoes of Time

  Belgrave Dynasty

  King of the South

  Standalones

  Figure Eight

  To Kim

  Belgrave’s designated genealogist and Livingston’s first true love.

  “The two most important days of your life are the day you are born and the day you find out why.”

  - Mark Twain

  PROLOGUE

  Rainey

  I was born on June fifth, 1891, during the heat of the summer.

  The days were so hot you could barely breathe. When the sun set, the humidity stubbornly held its place. People slept with their windows open, braving the risk of mosquito bites. A sheen of sweat would cling to your forehead and neck through the night.

  However, the night I was born, a storm swept through Charleston. It rattled the shutters and caused the wind to whistle through the cracks of the front doors along The Battery.

  “The thunder swallowed your momma’s screams and your cries,” my daddy would tell me when I was a little girl.

  “The devil knew you were comin’, and he got scared,” my momma would say.

  To me, it’s fascinating what they each remembered from that night.

  My older brother, Miles, was supposed to be removed from the home, but due to the storm, he was sent to the third floor. Once I was born, Miles came pounding down the stairs with his best friend hot on his heels.

  They burst into the doors just as the midwife placed me, swaddled and content, in my momma’s arms.

  “This is your little sister, Raina Leonore.”

  According to my momma, Miles patted my head and said hello. His friend came up to me and stared at me intently. “Why is her face so red?” Livingston Lacroix asked bluntly.

  Seconds later, I began to wail, and it became a joke between our families that it was a precursor to the relationship I’d have with Livingston.

  When he poked, I protested.

  However, as the years passed and I grew older, I would be the one to do the poking. My chagrin for Livingston grew exponentially. The high jinks became grand and artful. When I knew our families would see each other, I would preoccupy myself with the best ways to torture him. And in turn, he would do the same.

  At the mere age of seven, I took our antics one step further when I shot him in the leg with Miles’s bow and arrow. Livingston was eighteen. My temper always got the best of me, and when he told me to leave them—him, Étienne, and Miles—be, I made up my mind then and there it was war. I ran into the house and up the stairs. I searched Miles’s room until I found his bow and arrows and ran back outside where I climbed a tree and waited quietly for Livingston.

  Livingston had a charm that no one could deny. He could smile himself out of trouble and laugh away your tears. But no smile or words he said could escape the sleek precision of my aim.

  In 1899, when my daddy died, the agony I felt seized every breath I took, and I freely waved a white flag between the two of us. Livingston chased away the pain with his grand stories. Each one better and brighter than the last. So vivid and real, they transported me to a different world, and my pain faded. It was temporary, but for a moment, I felt as though everything was all right.

  Like most men, he wasn’t fond of tears. He saw them quite frequently the first year after my daddy passed, but that couldn’t be helped. My eyes felt as though they were fountains that couldn’t be turned off. Late one night, when he was visiting my brother, he found me in the garden crying. Underneath a Spanish moss tree, he sat beside me and patted my hand. I’ll never forget what he said next. “Rainey, you have more strength in your pinky finger than most grown men will ever possess. Soon, you’ll conquer this pain. You were born to survive this.”

  In 1901, at the age of twenty-one, Livingston would be the one to wave the white flag when he lost his parents and younger brother in a train accident. I returned the kindness he gave to me by telling him stories. It was a dark period for the Lacroix family and especially for Livingston. I knew better than anyone that even though he would become better at coping with the pain, it would never leave. He would merely adapt to living without his loved ones. During that period, Livingston became a frequent visitor at the Pleasonton household.

  By 1902, Livingston Lacroix became the king of the South with his gorgeous looks that bordered on being dangerous. He drank and charmed away his pain while I felt abandoned and left in the dust. Stories and comfort were no longer needed. To the utter horror of our relatives, I was the first one to pick up the proverbial weapon and end our treaty of peace.

  While he finished college with his twin brother, Étienne, and my brother Miles, the times I s
aw him were few and far in between.

  “God be with the woman who marries him.” Momma would sigh whenever Livingston visited.

  “God be with the world with which we live in,” I would mutter whenever he left because wherever he walked, there was potential for a trail of broken hearts.

  Very swiftly, he was growing into a man. Though he never grew tired of our antics as the years passed, he still saw me as just his best friend’s baby sister. As I grew older, I wanted to do things to make him see I was not a child, so I would wear dresses that flattered my figure, or leave my hair down, or even go as far as using rouge. Momma was appalled by my desires. She said a true Southern lady would never do such things, but I vowed the moment I was old enough, I would do all three to simply prove a point. Not for Livingston’s affections.

  I did not care for Livingston in that way. I would never be one of the many ladies who fell for his charm. Of that I was certain.

  Throughout the years, we would find ourselves at war with one another. If I took aim at him with my words, he returned the favor every time with a consistency that I more than relied on. Women came and went from his life, and I was there to remind him that he was an impossible reprobate. And he would grin with his devastating smirk that made most women blush, and say, “Le savauge, you sound upset that I’m not your reprobate.”

  He had his life before him, and I believed the same for myself.

  But then everything changed when the Great War struck. He left. My brother left. In 1919, Livingston came back. My brother did not.

  We both lost pieces of ourselves.

  The problem was, neither of us knew how to ask for help. And we were all out of white flags to wave.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Livingston

  Blood seeps between my fingers, coating my skin and covering the dirt lining my fingernails. With both hands pressing on his leg wound, I use as much pressure as possible, but it doesn’t seem to help. Sweat drips down my forehead and into my line of vision.

  Artillery shells impacting No Man’s Land cause smoke to billow around us. The metallic scent of blood saturates the air. The trench my unit’s been in has become my home for the past eight days. I sleep here, eat here, and protect myself with my Chauchat.

  Others aren’t so lucky. Others die here.

  The sergeant beneath me is losing too much blood, so I press harder on the wound. Stop the bleeding. Stop the bleeding. You’ll save him! Those words loop in my mind.

  The blood is never-ending. I scream for a medic until my voice cracks, and then I look around. The rickety walkway, spanning the width of the trench, is overhead.

  Strands of barbed wire are looped near it.

  A fellow soldier is tending to a wounded soldier. The entire time my pressure on the wound never lessens. The sergeant, though, I’m losing him. I repeatedly call out for the medic. Even when the sergeant’s eyes close for good, I don’t remove my hands from the wound because maybe, just maybe, there’s a chance he can be saved on this hell on Earth …

  When I wake up, sweat coats my entire body. I’m not tending to a wound and hearing the sound of men dying around me, calling out for their mothers. I’m not hearing the sound of gunfire. No, instead my eyes blink slowly, adjusting to a white ceiling. A few seconds pass before it truly sinks in that I’m home. In Charleston. In my room, lying on the floor.

  But I’m safe.

  Then a pretty redhead blocks my view of the ceiling.

  “Shit,” I say, jolting at her sudden appearance.

  “Oh, good. You’re up,” Serene says dryly.

  Rolling onto my side, I prop myself onto my elbow and peer up at my sister-in-law through half-lidded eyes. “What are you doin’ here?”

  Standing up straight, she looks down at me. “The better question is why have Étienne and I been banging on the front door for the past ten minutes?”

  “I’m not receivin’ guests at the moment,” I grumble.

  “Well, it’s a good thing your brother and I are family and not mere guests then, right?” Serene says as she walks across the room and jerks open the curtains.

  Bright light seeps into the room, making my headache grow exponentially. “Are you tryin’ to kill me? Close the curtains,” I groan as I lie on my back and place a forearm over my eyes.

  The rapid movement makes my stomach feel queasy, and even though my eyes are closed, the room around me begins to spin as though I’m on a boat.

  Serene’s heels click against the floor as she approaches. Thankfully, she’s not wearing a strong perfume like some women wear. That would probably send me over the edge.

  Sighing, she nudges my thigh with her foot. I open one eye in time to see her point at her very large stomach. “Obviously, I can’t bend down to your level. But I can try to help you up.”

  I’m not entirely muddled from last night where assistance from an expectant woman is needed. I do have some pride left. Very slowly and carefully, I sit up, resting my back against the bed frame. Curling my arms around my knees, I let my hands dangle between my legs and stare at the wood floor that has felt the brunt of many Lacroix ancestors’ footsteps.

  They’ve achieved so much … Unlike you, I think to myself.

  I lift my head. “What can I do for you, Serene?”

  Serene begins to walk around the room. I expected her to see the state it was in and have a look of disgust on her face, but she doesn’t. Her hand curls around the bedpost as she picks up a dirty shirt off the floor. She searches for a place to put it and chooses a chair in the corner. With her hands on her hips, she looks down at me with no judgment or disdain. It’s almost as though this setting is one she’s not surprised to see.

  “Neither Étienne nor I have heard from you, and we were getting worried.”

  “I’m not a child.”

  Serene scoops up a pair of pants with the toe of her shoe. She snatches the material and lets it dangle between her fingers before she gives me a pointed look. “You were saying?”

  I tilt my head to the side as a lazy grin comes across my face. “Want to do my laundry, darlin’?”

  “Get one of the many ladies in love with you to do it, Lacroix,” she replies and throws my pants in my face.

  I nearly gag at the smell and toss the pants away from me when Étienne walks into the room. Unlike Serene, he appears less than pleased at the state of my room. His permanent scowl grows deeper until his brows are nearly touching.

  Groaning, I rest my head against the bed. “Does anyone in this family knock?”

  “Yes,” my twin replies. “We did. For quite some time. And when you didn’t answer, we let ourselves in.” Étienne crosses his arms over his chest and levels a contemplative look my way. “You missed the memorial.”

  Of course, I did. No one knows I missed the memorial more than I do. When I cannot get the dark thoughts to leave my head, I drink and drink and drink until there’s nothing left to think about. Until what my close friend’s final moments could’ve been cannot find a way into my mind.

  “Étienne choked on Miles.”

  Slowly, I lift my head. “Excuse me?”

  Étienne narrows his eyes at his wife. “You promised me you wouldn’t say a word.”

  “Yes, but some things are too good not to share.” Serene gives her attention to me. “When Rainey and her mom began to spread some of Miles’s ashes along The Battery, the wind picked up, and the ashes went with it. Étienne here chose that moment to yawn and then choked on Miles.”

  “Are they allowed to do that?” I regard the two of them. “Spread ashes?”

  Étienne sternly regards his wife, but a reluctant grin tugs at his lips. “No, but only Miles’s closest friends were there, and you know how he enjoyed the water.”

  It’s such a preposterous story and happened to the most aloof man I know. In spite of my blinding headache and overall ill health, I can still find the humor from the picture Serene paints, and I grin.

  She smiles back. “Thought you would ge
t a kick out of the story.”

  Étienne arches a brow. “Serene, can you please focus on Livingston and not me. Please?”

  She shakes her head as though to clear her mind and claps her hands. The sound vibrates through my head. “Right. Back to Livingston.” She points a finger at me. “Why did you not go?”

  “I had a date with …” I see the empty bottle on the floor and pick it up. Focusing on words hurts my eyes. “An-go-stur-a,” I pronounce slowly. I spin the bottle around, and when I see the profile of a man at the bottom, I squint. “My, that woman has masculine features.”

  Étienne snatches the bottle from my hands and shakes his head. “That’s Franz Joseph I of Austria.”

  “My God, that explains the mustache.”

  Étienne swears and drops the empty bottle. Instead of breaking, it clanks loudly onto the hardwood floor and slowly rolls beneath the bed.

  I’m far too slow-moving to reach for the bottle, and my head won’t stop aching. Groaning, I close my eyes. “Now why did you go and do that?” I drawl. “There could’ve been one last drink in the bottle.”

  Upon opening my eyes, I find my brother staring at me with barely contained indignation. I grin.

  “Serene,” Étienne says, his voice tight. “Can you leave my brother and me for a moment?”

  “Of course,” she says. Before my sister-in-law leaves the room, she glances at me. She doesn’t try to mask the sadness in her eyes. In recent times, that’s an expression Serene gives me frequently.

  Once she’s gone, Étienne sighs and sits in the chair in the corner of the room. He sits back, crossing one leg on top of the other.

  “As pleasant as this strained silence is, what is on your mind, Étienne? I have a bed to sleep in.”

  Suddenly, Étienne leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. He steeples his fingers together and stares thoughtfully at the floor. “Precisely how long shall this go on?”