“You think it’s from him?”
“I don’t know.” But I can see the answer in his eyes.
Outside, the wind picks up, brushing against the windows like a whisper.
I move closer, sliding my hand into his without thinking. “We’ll be okay,” I whisper.
He doesn’t promise it back, but his grip tightens. Maybe peace isn’t the absence of fear. Maybe it’s learning to breathe beside it—and choosing to stay anyway.
Chapter 34
Oakley Kate
The house is quiet hours after dinner, but the storm that’s been building tension in Silas's shoulders has only gotten worse.
He’s pretending it hasn't, pacing from room to room, checking locks that don’t need checking.
When he finally disappears upstairs, I wait a few minutes before following.
Aubrey’s door is half-open, the soft glow of her night-light spilling across the hall. She’s sprawled sideways on the bed, one leg hanging off, her unicorn clutched tight against her chest.
Peaceful. Completely unaware that someone out there wants to ruin it.
I settle onto the floor outside her room, back to the wall, my good leg stretched, the boot kicked to the side. From here, I can still see her breathing, still remind myself she’s safe.
My phone buzzes quietly with a text from Silas.
Hotshot: You still up?
Oakley: Sitting guard duty. She’s fine. You should sleep.
A pause, then:
Hotshot: Can’t. I keep seeing him in my head.
Oakley: Then let me see him first. I’ll handle it.
He doesn’t reply, but I picture his half smile—the one that’s equal parts gratitude and disbelief.
I rest my head against the wall and whisper into the dark, “He’s not taking her, Si. Not now. Not ever.”
For a long moment, the house hums with the steady rhythm of Aubrey’s breathing and the faint creak of Silas’s footsteps down the hall.
This is the family we built from the wreckage.
And I’ll burn the world to keep it safe.
The morning starts quiet. Silas left before dawn for a two-game road series in Jacksonville, his gear bag slung over one shoulder, his goodbye pressed soft against my hair. I pretended to still be half-asleep so I wouldn’t ask him to stay. He wouldn’t have anyway—not with the team short-benched—but the words would’ve made leaving harder for both of us.
Now the house hums differently. No clatter of his mug against the counter. No low voice humming along to the radio while he braids Aubrey’s hair. Just the creak of the floorboards and the hum of the fridge, steady and indifferent.
I pour coffee and stare out the window. Frost clings to the edges of the porch, melting in slow rivulets down the railing. Thesky looks thin, washed in that winter gray that makes everything feel too still.
Aubrey’s still in pajamas, sitting cross-legged on the floor with crayons spread across the rug. She hums under her breath, a tune that might be from one of the team’s goal songs.
“Eat before the crayons,” I say.
She wrinkles her nose. “Cereal again?”
