Home.
When did that happen? When did my guest house—the one next door to the guest house where Silas, Cal, and Jace live on the Carter estate—become home for all of us? When did we stop being separate households and become... this?
A family.
The thought makes my chest tight with something that feels like hope and terror in equal measure.
Movement catches my eye. Next door, the garage bay door is opening, the automatic light clicking on to reveal?—
Silas’s motorcycle.
Relief floods through me so intense it makes my knees weak.
He’s home. He’s safe. He’s?—
I slip out of my bedroom before dawn’s pale light can wake anyone, padding barefoot across cool hardwood and pushing the front door open with a soft click. The night air washes over me—crisp, faintly scented with dew and distant honeysuckle—and I shiver in nothing more than faded sleep shorts and a thin tank top. I don’t pause. I need him. To see that he’s alive, that he’s brought himself home safe and whole.
Across the narrow strip of lawn—blades damp underfoot—I cross into the garage’s glow just as Silas swings his leg off themotorcycle. The machine’s engine ticks as it cools, metal still warm beneath his fingers. He catches his helmet in one hand, his shoulders rigid, every movement deliberate and weighed down. In the harsh white light I spot the dark red stain spreading across his shirt, the fabric clinging to his skin. His hair, damp at the nape of his neck, falls in damp strands.
“Silas,” I murmur, voice barely louder than a breeze.
He turns. Even under fluorescent tubes, his face looks hollowed-out—eyes rimmed with shadows, storm-grey and distant. He hits the button to close the garage door, and with a soft mechanical hum the world dims to darkness broken only by the motorcycle’s red display.
I step in before the door seals shut. The overhead light clicks off, plunging us into a twilight of steel and oil. The faint scent of gasoline curls through the air, mingling with the sharp tang of his blood. I wait for my eyes to adjust, then move toward him, my bare feet whispering over concrete.
“Parker,” he says—his voice rough, ragged as torn fabric. “You shouldn’t be here. You should be inside with the boys.”
“They’re asleep with Jace and Cal,” I reply, voice soft as moth wings. “I couldn’t sleep knowing you were out there.”
He breathes in, a slow, tortured sigh. The scent of him rises—warm leather, sweat, something raw and aching underneath. He steps closer; I feel the heat radiate off his body. My fingers reach out, brushing against the ridges of his chest. He stands still, as if I’ve unspooled every tight coil inside him.
“Are you hurt?” I ask, voice catching. My palms press to the bruised warmth of him, feeling the rapid thud of his heart, as I catch sight of the blood splattered all over him.
He grips my hands against him.
“No,” he rasps. “Not mine.”
“Diego?” I whisper.
“Handled.” His words land flat, like stones thrown into dark water. “Not a problem anymore. We got what we needed—names, locations. Ryan and Aria’s network is exposed. We can finish this.”
A rush of relief floods me. Whoever sent those men after our children will pay. I nod, though he can’t see. “Good.”
His hands leave mine and settle at my waist, pulling me flush to him. The cold of the garage vanishes. “You really shouldn’t be out here, firefly. It’s late, and you’re barefoot.”
“I don’t care.”
He hesitates. His chest rises and falls, his breath thick. In the dark, I lift my hands to frame his face, tracing the angle of his jaw, the bruise under his eye. “Don’t push me away. Don’t decide I can’t handle what you did tonight. I know—every brutal choice you made. And I’m still here.”
Silence hangs between us until his forehead drops to mine. I feel the tremor through his bones—exhaustion, adrenaline finally giving out, grief for what he’s done.
“They tried to hurt our kids,” he murmurs. “And I wanted—God, Parker, I wanted to make him pay.”
I stroke his cheek. The stubble is rough under my fingertips. “You did what you had to. It’s done. He can’t hurt them again.”
He closes his eyes, jaw clenched. Then his lips crash into mine—a fierce collision of guilt and need. His mouth tastes of metaland smoke, but it’s home. I press back, nails catching in his shirt, pulling him closer even though there’s no space left.
His jacket falls to the floor with a thud. I shrug out of mine, heart pounding as I bare my skin to him. He groans low in his throat, hands sliding under my tank top, mapping the curves and planes of me by touch.
