Page 30 of Cannon (King Family Saga #3)

Queen

I still had Cannon’s taste on my lips when I heard ZaZa’s key in the door.

Shit. I flipped the bacon in the pan, trying to look like I’d been cooking breakfast instead of replaying last night’s fuck session against the bar.

My body was still humming, muscles sore in places that reminded me exactly how good it had been.

How he’d bent me over that bar and made me beg. How I’d let him.

“Smells good,” ZaZa mumbled, shuffling into the kitchen looking as if she had a long night. I studied her hard for evidence of drinking, drugging or plain old mania.

“Afternoon,” I said, eyeing the clock that read 1:37 PM. “Nice of you to join the land of the living.”

“I had a good night with my new man,” she said as she headed straight for the coffee pot, pouring herself a cup before slumping into a chair at the kitchen table.

“I need to meet him to make sure he’s a good influence on you. You want some eggs?” I asked, already cracking two into another pan.

“Sure and I don’t know about that. You might scare him away.”

I studied her while I cooked, looking for signs; dilated pupils, excessive sniffling, that manic energy that came before a crash.

But she just looked tired. Normal tired, not bipolar tired.

Still, my nerves were on edge. Every time she stayed out all night I got worried.

I wanted to lock her away in the house for her safety but I knew that I had to make living here palatable.

If I pushed too hard she would want to leave.

“You need to let me know when you’re planning to stay out all night,” I said, sliding the eggs onto a plate next to the bacon. “I was worried.”

“I’m twenty!” ZaZa replied with an eye roll that took me straight back to her teenage years.

“I don’t care if you’re forty. This is my house, and I need to know you’re safe.” I set the plate in front of her with more force than necessary. “A text isn’t too much to ask.”

She poked at her eggs with her fork. “Fine. I’ll text next time.”

I leaned against the counter, watching her eat.

The truth was, I didn’t think she should be going out at all, especially overnight.

Her meds were still being adjusted, and stability meant routine, not partying all night with some mystery man.

But I’d learned the hard way that locking her down only made her rebel harder. Like mother, like daughter, I guess.

“So, who is this guy?” I asked, trying to keep my tone casual.

“His name is Marcus. He’s a grad student at Columbia. Architecture.” She actually smiled, a real one that reached her eyes. “He’s different, Mom. Smart. Respectful.”

I wanted to believe her. God, I wanted to. But I’d heard this before, seen her fall hard and fast for men who seemed perfect until they weren’t. Until they couldn’t handle her highs and lows, or worse, encouraged the manic behavior or took advantage of it.

“Architecture,” I repeated, keeping my tone neutral. “That’s impressive.” I tried to be supportive but she had no business dating right now. I just didn’t know what to do when it came to ZaZa.

I remember with my mother, if you told her no, she would do the opposite out of her own misguided principles. She had to be rebellious. Had to do the opposite of what was right. I saw that in ZaZa and I wanted to tame it. But could I?

Speaking of my mother, she hadn’t tried to contact me after I blocked her. And a part of me was feeling bad, that maybe I should check on her. Her paranoia wasn’t her fault. But she also refused to take accountability.

“Your meds,” I said as ZaZa finished her breakfast. “Did you take them this morning?”

She rolled her eyes again but nodded. “Yes, Queen. I took my meds. Just like I do every morning.”

I sat down across from her with my own plate, studying her face for any sign of a lie. But she seemed steady, present. Maybe this new medication regimen was actually working.

“This Marcus,” I started, cutting into my eggs. “He knows about your condition, right?”

ZaZa’s fork paused halfway to her mouth. “Mom.”

“It’s important,” I insisted. “If he’s going to be in your life, he needs to understand what that means.”

“Yes, he knows,” she said with a sigh. “I told him everything after our third date. He’s actually really supportive. His aunt is bipolar too, so he gets it.”

That was something, at least. I nodded, letting the subject drop as we finished eating in silence. When ZaZa stood to rinse her plate, I noticed the dark circles under her eyes weren’t as pronounced as they had been weeks ago.

“I’m gonna crash for a few hours,” she said, yawning. “Marcus has an exhibit tonight he wants me to see.”

“Text me if you’re staying out,” I reminded her as she shuffled toward her bedroom.

“I will, I promise.”

Once I heard her door close, I let out a long breath. The apartment suddenly felt too small, too confining. I needed air, space to think. Between ZaZa, the club, Smoke’s threats, and whatever was happening with Cannon, my mind was a tangled mess.

I changed into leggings and a loose tank top, pulled my hair into a high ponytail, and slipped on my running shoes. A walk would clear my head.

“I’m going out for a bit,” I called to ZaZa’s closed door. “Rest up.”

The summer heat hit me like a wall when I stepped outside, but I welcomed it. The neighborhood was alive with kids playing double dutch on the sidewalk, old men playing chess in the park, music floating from open windows. I walked with purpose, nodding at familiar faces as I passed.

Three blocks in, the tension in my shoulders had eased slightly. Six blocks, and my racing thoughts had slowed. By the time I rounded the corner onto Malcolm X Boulevard, I was almost feeling human again.

That’s when I saw him.

Cannon was stepping out of the corner bodega, a plastic bag dangling from one hand.

Even from a distance, I could see the bruising on his face, a dark mark blooming under his right eye.

But it was his knuckles that caught my attention, raw, split open, crusted with dried blood.

This was the second time that I’ve seen his knuckles look this bad.

My stomach dropped. What the hell had he gotten into? And how recently?

He hadn’t noticed me yet, was checking his phone with his free hand. I quickened my pace, suddenly feeling the desperate need to reach him.

“Cannon!” I called out, my heart racing as I closed the distance between us.

His head snapped up, those ocean-blue eyes widening slightly before his face settled back into that controlled mask. But not before I caught the flicker of pain when his expression changed.

“What happened to you?” I demanded, reaching for his face without thinking. My fingers hovered just above the bruise, not quite touching. “And your hands, they’re a mess.”

“It’s nothing,” he said, pulling back slightly. “Just handled some business.”

I narrowed my eyes, taking in the full extent of his injuries. The bruise under his eye was fresh, probably from last night or early this morning. After he’d left me at my place.

“Does this have to do with Smoke? This doesn’t look like nothing,” I said, gently taking one of his hands in mine. His knuckles were raw, crusted with dried blood. “You need to clean these before they get infected.”

“I’ve had worse and nah, I got in a fight with my brother,” he shrugged, trying to pull his hand away, but I held on.

But then it hit me that he mentioned his brother.

I didn’t even know he had siblings. I didn’t know shit about him.

Last night made that clear when he said that he knew Smoke.

Who was this man that had completely taken over my mind and body.

“Come home with me right now,” I said, my voice leaving no room for argument. “I need to clean those cuts and put something on that bruise.”

His jaw tightened. “I don’t need you playing nurse, Queen. I’m good.”

“I’m not asking,” I replied, tightening my grip on his hand. “You took care of me last night. Let me return the favor.”

Something in his expression softened slightly at my words. He looked down at our joined hands, then back at my face with those piercing blue-green eyes that seemed to cut right through me.

“Fine,” he finally conceded. “But I need to make a quick call first.”

I nodded, releasing his hand so he could step away. While he made his call, I watched him, the rigid set of his shoulders, the way he kept his back to the wall, always aware of his surroundings. Even injured, he moved like a predator, dangerous and controlled.

When he returned, he fell into step beside me without a word. The walk back to my apartment was silent, but not uncomfortable. His presence beside me felt right somehow, like we’d been walking these streets together for years instead of days.

Once inside my apartment, I led him to the bathroom. “Sit,” I ordered, pointing to the edge of the tub. “ZaZa’s sleeping, so we need to keep it down.”

He obeyed, his large frame looking almost comical perched on my vintage clawfoot tub. I dug through the medicine cabinet for antiseptic and gauze, aware of his eyes following my every movement.

“This might sting,” I warned, kneeling in front of him with a cotton ball soaked in hydrogen peroxide.

“I think I can handle it,” he replied dryly.

I dabbed at his knuckles, watching his face for any reaction, but he remained stoic, even as the peroxide bubbled in his open cuts. His hands were beautiful despite the damage, strong, with long fingers and clean nails. Hands that had been all over my body just hours ago.

“So,” I said, keeping my voice casual as I worked, “you gonna tell me what really happened? Who’s this brother you got into it with?”

Cannon’s jaw tightened, and for a moment I thought he wouldn’t answer. Then he sighed, a deep sound that seemed to come from somewhere ancient inside him.

“My half-brother,” he said finally. “Riot King.”

I froze, the cotton ball hovering over his knuckles. “Riot King? From King Industries?”