“They’re not ours,” I say automatically. “Even if—genetically—even if the timeline matches, they’re hers. She’s raised them. Protected them. Built a life for them away from all this.” I gesture vaguely at the window, at the compound, at the empire we help Charles maintain. “Maybe that’s why she left.”
“To protect them from us?” Silas’s voice goes dark. “From their own fathers?”
“From the Carter legacy,” I correct. “From being pawns in games played by dangerous men. From being exactly what Dominic would have made them.”
The truth of it settles like ash. Dominic would have used those boys. Would have seen them as leverage, as assets, as ways to secure alliances or cement power. Would have taken them from Parker and shaped them into weapons.
“She was protecting them,” Cal says quietly. “From her father. From this life. Maybe from us too.”
“We would never—” Silas starts.
“Wouldn’t we?” Cal challenges. “If we’d known she was pregnant six years ago, what would we have done? Let her go? Let her raise them alone?” He shakes his head. “We would’ve kept her here. Kept her safe. Kept her locked down so tight she couldn’t breathe, just like she hated growing up.”
The accusation hangs heavy because it’s true. We were overbearing, controlling, and suffocating. We told ourselves it was protection, but Parker experienced it as prison.
“This time is different,” I say firmly. “This time, we let her lead. We let her tell us what she wants, what she needs. We don’t assume. We don’t take over. We don’t make decisions for her.”
“Even if those kids are ours?” Silas demands.
“Especiallyif those kids are ours.” I meet his eyes, then Cal’s. “Because if we’ve learned anything in six years, it’s that Parker Carter doesn’t respond to cages. She responds to choices.”
A knock at the door makes us all freeze.
“Hey!” Charles’s voice carries through the wood. “You guys ready? Parker’s here with the boys. They’re excited about the motorcycles, by the way. Fair warning.”
The three of us exchange glances. Some kind of silent agreement passes between us without words.
Game faces. Operational mode. Support Charles, help Parker, don’t scare the children.
Don’t stare at two five-year-olds and try to find ourselves in their faces.
Don’t calculate genetics while lifting boxes.
Don’t let anyone see that our entire world is fracturing while we pretend everything is fine.
I open the door to find Charles grinning, completely oblivious to the tension radiating from our house. Behind him, Parker stands with her hands on her sons’ shoulders. She’s in jeans and a simple t-shirt, hair pulled back, no makeup. She looks younger without the armor of California polish. More like the girl I remember. The one who used to sneak into our garage and sit on Silas’s motorcycle pretending to race. Less like the over-thirty-year-old grown woman in front of us now.
And the boys. God, the boys.
The dark-haired one—Liam, she’d said—stands perfectly still, watching us with those blue-gray eyes that are a mirror of my own. His posture is straight, contained, and already assessing.
The other—Noah—practically vibrates with energy, amber eyes bright with excitement as he spots the motorcycles lined up in our garage.
“Are those yours?” Noah bursts out, pointing. “Uncle Charles said you have motorcycles, but I didn’t know they wereright there!”
“Noah,” Parker’s voice is gentle but firm. “Inside voices. And we talked about asking permission before?—”
“Can we see them? Please?” Noah’s already moving toward the garage, and Parker’s hand shoots out to catch his shoulder.
“Boys, these are the men I told you about. Remember?” She meets my eyes for the first time since the funeral, and I see fear and determination warring in her expression. “This is Jace, Cal, and Silas. They’re Uncle Charles’s friends. And ours.”
“The motorcycle guys!” Noah’s enthusiasm is infectious, impossible to resist. “Mom said you used to ride all the time. That you taught her to drive.”
“We tried,” Cal says, and his voice is almost normal. Almost. “Your mom was very stubborn about doing things her own way.”
“She’s still stubborn,” Liam observes with the serious tone of someone much older than five. “She says it’s determination.”
A smile tugs at my mouth despite everything. “She would.”
