We’ve never said it. Not in so many words. But he thinks he might be. I let him think that, and that makes me a special kind of coward. The worst part is, he’s tried. He’s shown up. He’s offered stability when I was barely sleeping, barely functioning, writing one-handed while holding a newborn with the other.
But Ben never calls him “Dad.” He just calls him “Maliek.” And sometimes, late at night, when Ben’s curled up next to me, he whispers about dragons with sharp teeth and blue eyes, and I feel like the floor’s been pulled out from under me.
I rinse a pan in the sink and glance at the clock.
“I’ve got to meet with Roan,” I say.
“Again?” Maliek asks.
“Publisher stuff.”
He nods like he understands, but I know he doesn't. Roan’s half literary agent, half damage control specialist these days. Ever sinceThe Crimson Affairgot picked up for vid adaptation, everyone wants to know just how much of the book is “real.”
Too much, honestly.
I grab my bag and kiss Ben on the head. He leans into it, sticky fingers and all.
“Try not to invent any new economic systems before lunch,” I say.
Ben nods solemnly. “I’ll do my best.”
I turn to Maliek. “See you tonight?”
He hesitates. “Maybe we should talk later. About… things.”
“Sure,” I say, already halfway out the door.
The air outside is crisp for Haven-7 standards—recycled, filtered, but with just enough synthetic pine scent to trick your brain into thinking it’s fresh. My boots echo against the polished walkways as I weave through the morning rush toward the transrail.
Just as I reach the platform, a wave of noise erupts overhead.
A vid-screen flickers to life, towering above the crowd. I glance up automatically, just another headline.
But the image hits me like a punch to the gut.
BREAKING: REDSCALE HEIR RELEASED FROM GLIMNER HOLD
And there he is.
Jav.
The screen shows him flanked by Alliance security, smirking like he’s already five steps ahead. His scales are dulled, but his eyes—those electric, impossible blue eyes—are the same.
My hand trembles. I don’t realize I’m still holding my coffee until it slips and shatters on the pavement. The liquid splashes my boots. I barely feel it.
People around me murmur, nudge each other. Some recognize him. Fewer recognize me.
I can’t breathe.
Five years.
Five years of silence. Of pretending I didn’t miss him every damn day. Of raising a child he doesn’t know exists. Of wondering what would happen if he ever came back.
And now he’s here.
Out.
Alive.
