Page 10 of Desert Sky (RB MC #4)

SKYE

T he kettle screamed on the stove, but I didn’t move.

I was hunched over the bathroom sink, not puking—though I looked the part—but gripping porcelain with white-knuckled fingers, my heart thudding like a warning bell. The nausea wasn’t from the pregnancy this time.

This was guilt.

At seven months, the baby had started kicking with purpose. Soft taps at first, now little jabs that reminded me they were in there. Growing. Thriving. Needing me to keep going.

But today—today was different.

I finally understood what Malik meant when he said, “If you want to stay hidden, we’ll have to burn the trail behind you so cold, no one will bother to follow.”

At the time, I agreed. Desperately. Terrified of JD’s family.

Of Clarissa Northport and the threats that still haunted me in dreams. Of the idea that they’d find me, take the baby, and bury me in more than just silence.

Just like what they had done to the truckers I had no doubt they’d do me and the baby worse.

But knowing what we’d done… what we planted…

It made my stomach roll. Malik and I had set it all up a while ago… but JD had just discovered it. It was cruel how Malik and I planted false bread crumbs. Ones that kept breaking our hearts.

I turned off the kettle and sat slowly at the edge of the bed, one hand on my belly. The baby kicked again, gentle but sure, like they were reminding me that I didn’t have the luxury of regret.

Malik had been so methodical.

He’d found some guy—tattoos, beat-up boots, cracked sunglasses—the type JD’s mother would scoff at from a mile away. Malik said he worked part-time at a mechanic shop and had enough of a record to make him fit the narrative.

Then he staged the footage. Still shots. Grainy videos.

Me leaning into the guy. His hand at the small of my back. One clip with our foreheads touching like lovers. We never kissed. Never spoke. But I went along with it because it was necessary.

And then came the final blow: Malik spliced it into the security footage at the library. The place JD’s mother *thought* I’d gone so often. Her source at the library had been played, fed the visuals we needed her to believe.

To believe I wasn’t heartbroken.

To believe I’d never loved JD at all.

To believe I left him for someone from the wrong side of town.

I closed my eyes, pressing a fist to my chest. The ache there hadn’t dulled. Not even a little.

“Baby,” I whispered, voice trembling, “I hope one day you understand why I did this. ”

The plan was simple: Give JD a reason to stop looking. Break his heart so thoroughly he’d let go. No one hunts for a girl who played them. Not when she disappears with another man.

Let them think I used him.

Let them think I was just like the girls his mother warned him about.

Let them think… anything but the truth.

Because the truth? That I loved him so deeply I gave him up for his own future? That I chose exile to protect him and our child? That I walked away from the only man who’s ever seen me?

That would have kept him searching.

And if he kept looking… they’d eventually find him. And then me. And then the baby.

I’d rather JD hate me than bury me.

The fire in the wood stove popped in the corner. The baby moved again—slow and rolling this time. I rubbed the curve of my stomach and bit back the tears.

“I’m the villain in his story now,” I whispered.

A soft knock tapped at the cabin door.

Shaniqua.

“Come in,” I called, voice hoarse.

She stepped in with a steaming cup of ginger tea. She took one look at me and said nothing at first—just handed me the mug and sat beside me.

“You okay?” she asked gently.

I nodded too fast.

She didn’t press. Just rested a hand on my shoulder.

“You’re not a bad person, Skye,” she said softly.

“I let him think I was.”

“Sometimes the truth is a luxury,” she said. “Sometimes survival costs your heart. ”

I sipped the tea. It didn’t help much.

“You think he’ll believe it?” I asked after a beat.

Shaniqua hesitated. “He’ll want to.”

And that was the worst part. Knowing JD would hurt. Would second-guess everything we had. Would maybe start to heal, but never fully understand why I left.

Unless I one day got to tell him.

But that day couldn’t come until we were safe. Until the baby was born and the world couldn’t take what we’d made away from us.

So I carried the weight of the lie.

Of the love turned to ash in someone else’s eyes.

And I rocked back gently, whispering to my unborn child, “I’ll carry it for both of us. As long as I have to.”

The rest of my pregnancy was uneventful. The first contraction hit me like a wave crashing against rock—slow at first, then deep, thudding, twisting through my spine. I dropped the wooden spoon into the soup pot and grabbed the edge of the countertop.

It was time.

I had known for months this day was coming, but no amount of breathing techniques or herbal tea could prepare you for the moment you realize your baby is ready to meet the world.

Shaniqua came running when I called. Her voice didn’t shake as she got me to the couch and called her grandma, then the doula and nurse they had lined up months ago.

There would be no hospitals. No charts. No nurses asking questions about my ID or insurance.

No risk of a curious receptionist tipping off the wrong person.

Just like they had with my fake ID they managed to a birth certificate for Jackson and a social security card.

Under the table. Black ops style. That’s how I rolled now.

We couldn't take the chance.

Not with JD’s family out there. Not with the possibility that someone—anyone—might find out and send a ping straight to the Northport estate.

This baby had to be born in secret. Safe.

The cabin became a sanctuary. Shaniqua’s grandma simmered water on the stove, murmuring prayers as the fire crackled. The doula arrived, calm and steady. The nurse brought her kit, scrubbed and ready. Soft lights, quiet voices, warm towels. Everything we had planned for.

The labor stretched on for hours. Sweat beaded on my temples. My back screamed. My hands ached from gripping the sheets and Shaniqua’s arm. But I kept breathing. Kept pushing.

Then, in a moment so raw and bright it stole my breath?—

He was here.

A sharp cry. Tiny, wrinkled fists. A voice I hadn’t heard but somehow knew. They placed him on my chest, skin to skin, slick and perfect and mine.

I laughed and sobbed all at once. “Hi,” I whispered. “Hi, baby. Hi.”

“You did it,” the doula said, tears in her eyes. “He’s perfect.”

Shaniqua wiped her own face and whispered, “He’s beautiful, Skye. You did good.”

I looked down at him, tracing the bridge of his nose, the curve of his lips. He looked like JD already. My heart broke and bloomed all at once.

“His name is Jackson,” I whispered. “J-A-C-K-S-O-N. ”

The nurse blinked. “That’s… specific.”

“It’s after his father,” I said, voice cracking. “But not the same. It’s his own name. His own story.”

Malik came a few hours later, his shoulders broad and quiet as ever. He carried a faded blue teddy bear with a missing button eye. When he looked down at Jackson, something shifted in his face—like he saw redemption in a swaddled bundle.

“You kept him safe,” Malik said. “That’s all that matters.”

That night, we all sat around the fireplace: me, Shaniqua, her grandma, the nurse and doula, Malik. We ate soup and passed Jackson around like he was royalty. I rocked him gently in my arms and cried—not from fear, or pain—but relief.

This baby. This life.

It was worth every second of the hell we’d been through.

Because he’s the heir to an empire nobody wants him to be a part of—and that’s exactly why he’s free.