“Extra marshmallows,” Parker confirms.
I start to stand, but Noah’s hand tightens on my shirt. “Don’t leave.”
“I’m just going to make the hot chocolate, buddy. I’ll be right back.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.” I ruffle his hair, extracting myself carefully from his grip. “Two minutes. Time me.”
That gets a small smile. Progress.
I head to the kitchen, grateful for the excuse to move, to do something productive instead of just sitting with the weight of almost losing them pressing down on my chest.
The kitchen is open to the living room, so I can still see Parker and the boys. She’s talking to them quietly, her voice soothing, answering their questions with patience I don’t know how she has right now.
I pull out the milk, the cocoa, the marshmallows. Put a pot on the stove. Try to focus on the simple mechanics of making hot chocolate instead of the fact that someone just tried to kill my family.
My family.
When the fuck did that happen?
When did Parker Carter and her two boys become the thing I’d die protecting? When did the idea of losing them become more terrifying than any bullet or blade I’ve ever faced?
Movement in my peripheral vision catches my attention. Cal, setting up his mobile workstation on the dining table—three laptops, a tablet, cables snaking between devices, his fingers already flying across keyboards.
“Anything?” I ask, keeping my voice low.
“Working on it.” His eyes never leave the screens. “Got the security feeds from the park, pulling traffic cams from surrounding streets, running facial recognition on the hostiles we have clear shots of.”
“The ones we took down?”
“Dead. All three. No ID, no phones, no wallets. Professional.”
“Fuck.”
The milk starts to steam. I add the cocoa, whisking it smooth, trying to channel my rage into something productive.
“Uncle Silas?” Noah’s voice from the living room. “Is it ready?”
“Almost, buddy. Thirty more seconds.”
I pour the hot chocolate into mugs, add an obscene amount of marshmallows because these kids deserve something good after the shit they just went through. Carry them carefully to the living room.
Noah and Liam’s faces light up when they see the marshmallows overflowing from the mugs.
“Whoa,” Liam breathes.
“That’s like a hundred marshmallows,” Noah adds, awed.
“At least,” I confirm, handing them each a mug. “Don’t tell your mom I gave you this much sugar.”
Parker shoots me a look, but there’s warmth in it. Gratitude, maybe, for making them smile.
I make two more mugs—one for Parker, one for me—and return to my spot on the floor next to Noah. The kid immediately leans into my side again, sipping his hot chocolate carefully.
“Better?” I ask quietly.
He nods. “Thank you, Uncle Silas.”
