He’s definitely got my analytical brain.
And Silas’s observation skills.
And Jace’s tactical assessment capabilities.
Fuck, these kids are going to be terrifying when they grow up.
Parker’s eyes are shining with tears she’s refusing to let fall. She takes a shaky breath, clearly trying to figure out how to answer honestly without traumatizing her five-year-old further.
“Dominic was... complicated,” she says finally. “He loved his family in his own way. But he also made choices that hurt people, including people in his own family. Including me.”
“Did he hurt you?” Liam presses. “Is that why you left?”
“He scared me,” Parker admits. “And I was afraid that if I stayed, he might hurt you and Noah. So I left to keep you safe.”
“But he’s dead now,” Liam says, his child’s logic trying to make sense of adult complications. “So we can be here now. And Uncle Charles and Uncle Jace and Uncle Cal and Uncle Silas will keep us safe instead.”
“Exactly,” Parker says, her voice breaking slightly. “Exactly right, baby.”
“And Dominic...” Liam hesitates. “He didn’t not like us, right? He just... he never met us?”
“He never met you,” Parker confirms. “And that’s his loss. Because you and Noah are the best things that ever happened to me.”
Liam seems satisfied with this answer, settling more comfortably against Parker and Jace.
But I catch Parker’s eyes over his head, see the pain there, the guilt, the fear that she didn’t protect them well enough, that she should have done more, that this is somehow her fault.
It’s not. None of this is her fault.
Dominic Carter was a monster who hurt his own daughter. Who would have used these boys as weapons, as leverage, as tools.
She saved them by running. By staying away. By building a life in California where they could be safe.
And now she’s here, trusting us to keep them safe when she can’t do it alone anymore.
That’s not weakness. That’s strength.
That’s love.
Noah shifts against my chest, making a small sound in his sleep. I adjust my hold automatically, one hand supporting his back, the other cradling his head. He settles immediately, his breathing evening out again.
So much like me. Chaos all around him—questions about dead grandfathers, trauma from shootings, upheaval and fear—and he finds peace in the middle of it. Processes it by shutting down, going internal, sleeping it off.
I do the same thing. Always have.
Silas too, though his version involves violence and work instead of sleep.
This kid is ours. Both of ours, in different ways. The perfect combination of my analytical brain and Silas’s emotional control.
Except he can’t be Silas’s. Not biologically.
The vasectomy makes sure of that.
There’s a tiny chance—less than one percent, failure rate on those procedures—but I’ve seen Silas’s medical records. The procedure was thorough. Verified. Tested multiple times in the years after.
He’s sterile. Has been since he was eighteen years old.
Which means if Noah is mine biologically, then Liam is Jace’s. Or vice versa.
