“You killed him,” Landon whispers.
I swallow hard.
“I had to, boy,” I say, my voice heavy with the knowledge of what I have done. “I can only ask for your forgiveness. I did what I had to do. This whole time. It was never easy. But I had to follow my instincts.”
Landon searches my face for a long moment.
Then he leans up and presses his forehead to mine.
“I forgive you,” Landon says. “I forgive you for everything. For the lies, and for the way you looked at me when you thought you had to pull the trigger. I love you, Daddy.”
My throat closes.
He kisses me—soft, trembling, tasting of salt and relief.
“I want you to be myForever,” Landon whispers against my lips. “I don’t care about the rest. I don’t care about the city or the families or what happens next. I just want you. Always.”
I cup his face with both hands.
“Nothing would make me prouder,” I tell him. “Nothing in this world.”
He smiles—small, shaky, but real—and curls back into my chest.
I hold him the rest of the drive.
The sirens fade behind us.
The city lights blur past.
And for the first time in years—maybe ever—I let myself believe that maybe, just maybe, we might actually make it out the other side.
They used to call me the dagger man. But today I took a gun and found true love.
Chapter 21
Landon
The following day I wake up late in Ivan’s bed—ourbed now, I suppose—curled on my side with the quilt pulled up to my chin. My body still feels heavy, like it hasn’t quite decided whether yesterday really happened or if it was all a long, violent dream.
The ache in my muscles has dulled to a faint soreness, but my heart still races every time I close my eyes and see my father’s face the instant before the shot.
I’m wearing the soft cotton romper Ivan laid out for me last night—pale lavender with little white daisies, cute puffed sleeves, snap crotch for easy changes. It’s the kind of thing I’d have been embarrassed to wear in front of anyone else a month ago.
Now it feels like armor. Comforting. Safe. And just right.
Claw is tucked against my stomach, one fuzzy paw draped over my wrist. On the nightstand sits a small fortress of snacks Ivan brought me earlier when I was still half-asleep: a bag of gummy bears, chocolate-covered pretzels, strawberry Pocky sticks, a couple of mini cinnamon rolls still in their bakery sleeve, anda bottle of chilled apple juice with a bendy straw already poked through the foil lid.
A Nintendo Switch rests on the pillow beside me, screen dark but charged, ready whenever I feel like escaping into Animal Crossing or Stardew Valley for a while.
“Daddy?” I mouth, my voice low, almost a whisper.
The bedroom door opens quietly.
Ivan steps in carrying a shallow bowl of steaming porridge. The scent of oats and maple syrup reaches me before he does. He’s in a plain black T-shirt and gray slacks, hair still damp from the shower, barefoot. The sight of him—so normal, so domestic—makes my chest ache in the best way.
“Morning, little one,” Ivan says softly. “Or afternoon, technically. You needed the sleep.”
I push myself up against the headboard, tugging the quilt higher. “What time is it?”
