Page 20 of Beautiful When He Breaks

“The fuck it isn’t.”

The words snap through the room, low enough not to wake the baby but hard enough to shut me up. Killian steps closer, not crowding me, but making me hear him.

“You think I let people live under this roof because I like noise and broken furniture? You think my family keeps this place running because we needed a hobby? The Sin Bin isn’t just a mansion with good plumbing and spoiled athletes. It’s a place where my people don’t get left out in the cold when life goes to hell. I have the money and the means, Eli. I am going to help you.”

My chest tightens, and he jabs one finger lightly toward the floor, meaning the house, meaning everyone in it. “You’re one of us. That baby became one of us the second she crossed the threshold. That means you have the King family at your back, whether your pride likes it or not.”

I want to argue and tell him I don’t need charity. I want to tell him my dad taught me to stand on my own two feet and pay what I owe. I want to tell him I don’t know how to accept something this big without feeling like I’m being hollowed out by debt. But my pride feels small next to her breathing softly next to my bed.

“What if your father says no?” I ask because fear is stubborn. “He already agreed to sending the lawyer; he won’t say yes to paying for her services repeatedly, too.”

Killian gives me a look so flat I almost feel stupid. “He already said yes last night while you were trying not to cry during the baby’s blood sugar check.”

I glare at him and drop back onto the edge of the bed, dragging a hand over my face. “Fuck.”

“Yeah,” Killian says, sitting again too. “That’s been the general theme.”

For a minute, neither of us says anything. The mansion creaks around us, alive with the day’s beginning.

Killian sets his cup on my desk and faces me fully. “Listen to me carefully, Eli.”

My stomach tightens again because Killian doesn’t use that voice unless he means it.

“If the baby is yours, and if something happened while you weren’t able to consent, you didn’t create this situation—she did. Or whoever helped her did. Celeste’s parents forcing decisions afterward doesn’t erase what came before. Their lawyer’s letter doesn’t make them righteous. And your parents’ religion doesn’t get to rewrite facts because the facts embarrass them.”

The room goes blurry for a second, and I blink hard against it. “You make it sound simple.”

“It isn’t simple.” His voice lowers. “But the foundation is. You don’t let shame make decisions for you.”

I don’t know why that hits so hard. Maybe because shame has made most of my decisions since I was old enough to understand sin as something heavier than a word. Shame made me date Celeste harder when Julian warned me about her because I wanted proof that I was ‘normal.’ Shame made me ignore the weird black holes in my memory because asking too many questions meant admitting something wasn’t right. Shame made me push Jules away because he looked at me like he saw every lie before I even said it.

And now shame wants me to call my father and stand there while he tears me open.

Killian turns toward the baby when she lets out a soft sigh. “She’s safe right now; you keep coming back to that. When everything gets too big, look at what’s in front of you. Is she breathing? Is she warm? Is she fed? Is she safe? Then the next thing.”

My eyes burn again, but I blink it back. I’m tired of crying and being shocked by my own body.

Killian picks up his cup and turns toward the door but pauses in the doorway and looks back at me. “And Eli?”

“Yeah?”

“Don’t use Julian as a crutch and then run when he gets too real.”

He leaves me with that piece of advice that makes me feel even shittier, closing the door quietly behind him.

I can hear Julian on the stairs now, his steps familiar before I see him, his voice low as he curses in Afrikaans at what I assume is still the bottle warmer. My chest aches with the need to see him and the fear of what Killian said.

I reach into the bassinet and touch the baby’s tiny fist with one finger. She curls around me in her sleep, reflexive and fierce, and my chest caves in with that same terrifying love from yesterday.

“Hey,” I whisper, because I still don’t have a name to give her. “I’m trying. I swear to God, I’m trying.”

My phone vibrates on my nightstand, and the sound cracks through the room so sharply I jerk back, nearly knocking over the coffee. The baby startles but doesn’t wake, her face scrunching for one breath before smoothing again. I grab the phone, heart already racing because some part of me knows before I even look.

Dad.

One word.

Three letters.