“I’mexcellentat this,” I argue. “You’re both being difficult.”
Asher shakes his head, standing up. “This is why you don’t do emotional support, Damon.”
Zane smirks. “Yeah, this was painful for all of us.”
I rub my temples. “Okay, great talk. Real bonding moment.”
“The truth is, we got sloppy.” Asher’s voice is clipped, his hands gripping the edge of the table. “All of us.”
Zane doesn’t look up from his gun. “Don’t.”
“What? You want to talk, then let’s talk,” Asher exhales harshly. “We’re not going to talk about how we missed a tracking device because we were too busy watching her?”
I straighten. “Asher, keep your voice down, man.”
Asher lets out a bitter laugh, ignoring me. “I think we are. Look at us. The great Mars Security team, undone by one woman and her kids.”
Zane’s hand clenches around his knife. “Careful.”
Asher scoffs. “Tell me I’m wrong.”
I don’t. I can’t. Because he’s not.
We’ve been distracted. Crossing lines. Letting emotions get in the way.
But Mia isn’t the problem here. We are.
“We let our guard down,” I admit, the words sharp. “That’s on us. Not her.”
Asher leans back in his chair, arms crossed and eyes burning. “Yeah? So what’s the plan, boss? Keep pretending we can do this job with our heads fucked six ways to Sunday?”
“That’s enough.” My voice drops to a warning.
“So what do you suggest? We drop the job? Leave her and the kids out here alone?” Zane shoots back.
Asher looks away, jaw tight.
“That’s what I thought,” Zane mutters.
“I’ll check their belongings. Every toy, every piece of clothing,” Asher says. “I’ll do what needs to be done.”
“Sure,” Zane says. “And for fuck’s sake, keep your opinions to yourself.”
They both walk off in opposite directions, leaving me standing there.
Mission:Notaccomplished.
From the upstairs hallway, I catch a glimpse of Mia through the window, her silhouette moving around the twins' temporary bedroom. The soft glow of a bedside lamp casts long shadows on the walls as she carefully arranges their things, trying to make the unfamiliar space feel like home.
Emma clutches her battered unicorn, her small fingers wrapped so tightly around it that her knuckles turn white. Even after what we found inside, she refuses to let it go. I can’t blame her. It’s more than just a stuffed toy; it’s comfort, security. A piece of stability in a world that keeps shifting under her feet.
Ella murmurs something, and Mia leans down, stroking her dark curls, whispering reassurances I can’t hear. My chest tightens at the sight, at the tenderness in the way she soothes them. At how much she’s carrying on her own.
Then Emma turns her head, and our eyes meet and for a second I forget to breathe. She doesn’t smile, doesn’t wave. Just watches me with those too-familiar eyes.
My mother’s eyes.
I swallow hard, looking away first.
