I glance at the twins, my heart tightening in my chest. Their faces are peaceful in sleep, their cheeks flushed pink from the warmth of their room. They don’t know how close danger has come to finding us again. I want to keep it that way for as long as I can.
“Thank you,” I murmur, stepping past him to adjust the edge of Ella’s blanket where it slipped from her shoulder.
His eyes linger too long, especially on Emma’s face, and my stomach twists. I stand and move toward him, trying to keep myvoice calm. “They’re asleep. I think it’s time we talk about the next steps.”
When he doesn’t move, I say pointedly. “Downstairs.”
His gaze doesn’t shift. “They look… familiar.”
I freeze, my throat tightening. “People say twins all look alike. You know, a shared face.”
He finally looks at me, those steel-gray eyes pinning me in place. There’s nothing hostile in his expression, just that unsettling, searching intensity. “No,” he says. “That’s not what I mean.”
Before I can reply, his attention drifts back to the twins. His jaw tightens, a faint crease forming between his brows. I see his eyes catch on Emma’s nose, the shape of Ella’s chin.
Panic bubbles up in my chest. “Damon, let’s just go downstairs. I don’t want to wake up the kids again.”
I expect him to say no, but he nods and follows me back to the living room.
Downstairs, the house feels quieter than it should. The kind of quiet that pulls at my nerves and makes my skin prickle. Damon sits on the edge of the couch, his forearms resting on his knees.
He looks the same as I remember him. The same rugged handsomeness, though the years have hardened him. Damon is tall, with dark hair that's almost black—the same thick, wavy texture as Emma and Ella’s. His dark hair is streaked with silver at the temples, framing eyes that echo my daughters futures. He’s built like he was made for combat, with his broad shoulders straining the seams of his black shirt and his muscular arms inked with tattoos that snake down to his forearms.
Handsome doesn’t quite cover it. Hardened, maybe. Beautiful, in a dangerous sort of way. The kind of man you couldn’t ignore even if you wanted to.
My heart hasn’t stopped racing since he walked through the door. His intensity, the sheer force of his presence, does something to me I don’t want to name.
“We need to discuss custody implications,” he says. His tone is even, but his eyes burn with something I can’t quite place. “If Jason tries to claim paternity?—”
“He can’t.” The words spill out of me before I can think. “I made sure of that. When he… when he tried to force the issue, I insisted on a paternity test. He refused, knowing what it would show. The court denied him any rights.”
Damon sits back slightly, his broad shoulders rolling as if he’s processing the weight of my words. “But Jason doesn’t care about rights, does he?”
“No,” I admit softly. “He doesn’t.”
It’s the truth, plain and simple. Jason never cared about the law or boundaries or anyone else’s autonomy. His obsession with control has always been about what he believes is his, what he can take and keep.
Damon’s gray eyes flicker toward the stairs, and my stomach twists. I know what he’s thinking about. Who he’s thinking about.
“Emma and Ella, they’re not his,” I repeat. “He knows that. It’s why he refused the test.”
Damon nods slowly, his expression unreadable. “But he acts like they are.”
I stiffen, my nails digging into my palms. “He acts like we belong to him. Like we’re his property. It’s what he does. It’s all he knows.”
Damon’s jaw tightens, the muscle ticking as he processes what I’ve said. I can see it in the way his hands flex against his thighs, the way his eyes narrow—he’s furious. Not at me, but at Jason. At the audacity, the gall of someone like Jason to think he could claim what wasn’t his.
“You’ve been dealing with this alone,” he says, his voice low. It’s not a question.
I nod, swallowing the knot in my throat. “What choice did I have? Jason’s... relentless. And every time I’ve trusted someone to help, it’s ended badly. He has a way of... punishing people who get in his way.”
Damon exhales sharply, his gaze locking on mine. “Not this time.”
I want to believe him. God, I want to believe someone can stand up to Jason and win. But I’ve learned to be careful with hope. Hope can break you faster than fear.
He leans forward. “If Jason escalates—and he will—you call me. No hesitation. Understood?”
“Yes,” I say, though the word feels fragile
