“Then set boundaries,” she says. “Tell them what you need. What you’ll accept and what you won’t. But don’t run. Promise me you won’t run.”
I take a breath. “I promise.”
“Good.” She links her arm through mine. “Now come on. Let’s rescue your children from whatever elaborate game they’ve invented.”
We walk back inside together, and I can feel it—the weight of tonight settling over me like an atmosphere. The conversation I’ve been avoiding for six years. The truth I can’t keep hiding.
The boys are still playing. Charles is laughing at something Mom said. The house smells like family and home and possibility.
And fifty yards away, three men are waiting.
For answers. For truth. For me.
Ready or not, everything changes tonight.
27
CAL
The garage smells of warm motor oil, scorched rubber, and the faint tang of ozone—an aroma that tastes of possibility. Overhead, fluorescent lights hum softly, casting harsh shadows across the concrete floor streaked with dark grease stains and copper wiring. Against one wall, my Ducati Panigale V4 sits naked: its crimson fairings stripped away, exposing the sculpted aluminum frame and a tangle of wiring harnesses that lead to the open ECU. A laptop perches on the workbench, its screen alive with diagnostics reading out in neat columns of numbers and hex code, the engine’s heartbeat laid bare in digital pulses.
I crouch beside it, fingers dancing over the keys as I coax performance data out of the machine—rpm curves, ignition timing, fuel trims—all scrolling in a hypnotic cascade. In here, everything answers to logic. You feed the right commands, and the engine responds with flawless obedience. No moods. No regrets. No haunting green eyes that belong to someone else’s child.
“You’re going to brick that thing,” Silas mutters from his corner, where he’s mid-operation on his Suzuki Hayabusa. His wrenchmoves with surgical precision, loosening a stubborn carburetor jet.
“I’m optimizing,” I say without looking up, adjusting the fuel map. “Bricking is a factory reset. This is performance tuning.”
Silas snorts, oil-flecked brow furrowed. “Uh-huh. And when it bursts into flames?”
I tapEnter. “Then I’ll build a better one.”
The heavy bay door rattles as Jace’s Yamaha R1M rolls in, its matte-black carbon fiber body shimmering like a panther in half-light. The engine’s rumble fades to silence, replaced by mechanical inertia. Jace kills the ignition, lifting his helmet to reveal damp hair plastered to his temples. He steps off the bike with the lean, controlled grace of a soldier.
“Took the scenic route,” he says, rolling his shoulders as he unclasps his armored jacket and hangs it neatly on the rack. “Traffic was murder.”
“Traffic or thoughts?” I ask, still absorbed in the stream of numbers on my screen.
“Both,” he admits, glancing toward the open doorway. “Charles said the boys aced their math tests today.”
“Of course they did,” Silas replies, never pausing. “They’re overachievers.” His voice carries a hardness that belies pride—the same math that whispers possibilities none of us can confirm yet.
I redirect my attention to the glowing readouts. Tinkering here is easier than dredging up memories of amber eyes in a kindergarten classroom.
A rhythmic thump echoes off the garage walls. A small red rubber ball bounces toward me, clinking against the concrete before coming to rest at my boot.
“Sorry!” A bright, breathless voice follows as three little figures step into the doorway, backlit by the slanting gold of afternoon sun. Dust motes dance around them like confetti.
I straighten and scoop up the ball, feeling its worn texture. “No harm done. Nice bounce. You’ve got a good arm.”
“Thanks, Uncle Cal!” Jimmy beams, grabbing the ball. His eyes widen as he takes in the exposed engines. “Whoa. Are you working on your motorcycles?”
“Guilty,” I say, patting the Ducati’s bare tank where the fairing used to be. “She needed some fine-tuning.”
Noah edges forward, his dark amber eyes—my eyes—bright with curiosity. “What’s tuning?”
“Making her faster,” I explain, standing. “Like giving her superpowers.”
“Cool,” Liam breathes, stepping beside his brother. “Can we look?”
