Page 1 of Crave

I threwmy phone across the room and let out a piercing scream. What the fuck was happening to me? Was I cursed? How could my life fall apart any more than it already had?

How could Joaquín not be my brother?

Heat flooded my body, and my brain burned. How much more heartbreak could I endure? I’d known nothing but pain since the night my parents had died. I’d been raped, my boyfriend had almost been killed by a bomb in the middle east, my baby had died, and then my brother had been arrested. I didn’t know if I could take one more curve ball being thrown at me.

I forced myself to take some calming breaths as I left Grant’s bedroom and went into his office. On his desk was a picture of my brother. I studied his face. Dark skin, almond-shaped eyes, long eyelashes. I searched the image, trying to match any of our features.

But there weren’t any.

Sure, we looked similar, but it was in a cultural way and not a brother-sister way. But he was a spitting image of my mom, and I was the spitting image of my dad.

What the fuck did that mean?

He had to be adopted. Or maybe I was.

We were raised together, I knew that for sure. He was my brother, same DNA or not. But why wouldn’t my parents have said something?

My lips pressed together as I came to my decision. It didn’t matter. A DNA test wouldn’t change the way I felt about him. I loved him, always and forever.

Joaquín wasn’t some stranger. I knew him. I trusted him. Hell, I’d ruined my life to try to exonerate him. If that wasn’t love, then I wasn’t sure what was.

Whatever the reason was, it didn’t change anything. What had changed was ten minutes ago, my son was dead.

And now, my son was alive.

Alive.

Julián. They name someone had given him.

Elías. The name I had given him. My father’s name.

The sickening wave of adrenaline, excitement, and anticipation hit me so hard my hands started to shake. Holy fuck, he was alive. I should’ve been ecstatic, but the emotions were too much—too sudden, and they made my stomach twist and tears spring to my eyes.

How many nights had I cried myself to sleep, wishing he were alive so I could hold him in my arms, kiss him, and never let him go.

My dreams for him, for me, could finally come true.

I just needed to get him. The thought threw every fiber in my body into panic, and I raked my hands through my hair, pulling at it until my scalp burned. He had been kidnapped, stolen from a hospital right under the noses of nurses and security and . . . me. I didn’t know Tiffany, but something in my gut told me she wasn’t the one who had taken him. She somehow ended up with him and pawned him off on her mother to raise.

So, who took him?

I didn’t know. What I knew was that Tiffany was dead and her mother had custody of him. Tiffany’s mother wouldn’t just hand him over to me. She loved the kid and when she’d met me, I had been pretending to be some Ukrainian stripper with huge boobs. She would be more likely to call the cops then give me my son. I would need to figure out a way to prove he was mine.

But I wanted to just grab him.

Fuck.

My head was buzzing.

I needed to calm down. Think rationally. Get a hold of myself, which was hard to do, especially since I’d snorted a line of coke an hour ago.

I left Grant’s office, went to the kitchen and boiled some water. After a few minutes, the tea kettle whistled. I poured myself a mug and stared at the color of the water as I bobbed the tea bag. As the scent of cinnamon and cloves tickled my nostrils, my mind began to slow down. A few sips of the warm liquid, and my thoughts cleared.

Grant was still not home, and I had no idea where he’d gone. I reached for my phone, which was sitting on the counter, but stilled my hand. I was about to call him and tell him the truth. I curled my fingers. Grant would help me. I knew he would, especially since there was a chance that he was Julián’s father.

That was what stopped me. I didn’t know if Grant was actually Julián’s father. I believed in my heart he was, but I wasn’t certain. I’d always wanted to know the answer to that question but had been afraid to find out the truth. Too afraid of the possibility that my son wasn’t Grant’s and instead he was the child of my rapist.

If Grant was the father of my child, he would want to be part of our lives. I wasn’t naïve enough to believe this would change things entirely between Grant and me. We wouldn’t go rushing off into the sunset as a family. No. Grant despised me too much for that. I had lied to him. I had run away from him. I had broken his heart. But maybe, just maybe, this new beginning could help us heal a bit.