My mother slipped to the ground, blood pooling beneath her, and I ran to her, Portia right behind, her scream choked with horror. I cradled my mother’s head, my hands pressing against the gut wound, blood hot and slick under my fingers.
“Mom,” I said, my voice breaking, my eyes on the door, my weapon ready for more threats.
One of Caroline’s men appeared (who thankfully I recognized), bloody and limping, his voice hoarse. “House is clear.”
I looked down at her, her face peaceful, like those mornings on Sullivan’s Island, her beauty untouched by the years, the blood.
“My Silas,” she whispered, her voice fading, her eyes locked on mine. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay,” I said, my voice rough, pressing harder on the wound, though I’d seen enough gunshots to know it was bad, too bad. “We’ll get you to a doctor.”
She shook her head, her hand gripping my arm, weak but insistent. “No. I need to tell you something.”
Her voice was a thread, quieter with each word, and I leaned down, my ear to her lips, her breath warm and faint. What she whispered took a moment to register in my head.
Her body relaxed, her eyes closing, and I checked her pulse, my fingers trembling. Nothing. She was gone.
Portia stifled a cry, her hand on my arm, her voice soft. “I’m sorry.”
I stared at my mother, her words a bomb in my chest. My father, not the hero I’d thought, but a man with secrets, a life I’d never known.
It didn’t make sense, couldn’t be true, but her voice, her dying breath, carried a truth I couldn’t deny. I sat there, covered in blood and grief, Portia beside me, her touch grounding me, Caroline’s man standing guard, his eyes wary.
A commotion broke the silence, footsteps pounding, and the guard tensed, his weapon training on the door.
“Are we good?” he asked, his voice low, strange.
I nodded, confused, my mind a haze. He lowered his rifle, setting it on the ground, and sat beside me, his face grim.
A second later, my brothers swept in—Ryker, Marcus, Elias, Noah, Charlie, Atlas—weapons raised, scanning the room, each in whatever they’d been wearing when they got the call.
Ryker’s eyes locked on my mother when he came close, his voice a whisper. “Is that Mom?”
Portia answered, her voice steady despite her tears. “I called Ryker. Told him where we were.”
I nodded, gratitude flooding me, my brothers’ presence a lifeline. I looked at them, their faces a mix of shock and grief, and spoke, my voice raw.
“She said Dad had another family. She said we need to find them.”
The room went silent, the weight of her words sinking in, the war over, Department 77 dead, our family fractured yet bigger than we’d known.
Portia’s hand tightened on mine, and I held it, my mother’s body still in my arms, my brothers around me, the ribbon’s promise fulfilled in blood and secrets.
31
PORTIA
The blood on my hands wasn’t mine.
It was Caroline’s.
Still warm. Still red. Still everything that made this moment feel more like a scream than a silence.
I sat on the marble floor of Blackthorn Hollow, my knees pulled to my chest beside Silas, who held his mother like she was made of glass. The light above us flickered as if the house itself were trying to mourn her, too.
She had thrown herself into the path of a bullet meant for me.
“God,” I whispered, my voice shaking. “She stepped in front of it. She saw the gun and she didn’t even hesitate.”
