For a heartbeat, the room narrows until it's just the three of us; my son, warm and alive in my arms, and the man who brought him back, standing in the shadows like he doesn't know where he belongs in this picture. Whatever I feel for him right now—anger, grief, history, all of it—doesn't matter.
He brought my son back.
Our eyes lock.
There's too much in the look. Ten years. Blood. Fire. Everything we broke, and everything that still refuses to die. His jaw tightens slightly, like he's bracing for something. An accusation, maybe. Or collapse. I don't give him either. I mouth the words instead, because my voice wouldn't survive them.
Thank you.
It's barely a movement. Just breath and intent. Something shifts in his face then. Not softness, never that. But the tensionin his shoulders eases a fraction, as if a weight he hadn't admitted to carrying has finally been set down.
He gives a single nod. Nothing more. No words. No crossing the room. No claiming space that isn't his to claim. Somehow, that restraint—that—tells me more than anything else ever could. I tighten my arms around Amauri, press my cheek to his hair, and let my eyes close again.
For this moment, at least, we are all exactly where we need to be. ####
Whatever I thoughtthis moment would feel like, I was wrong. I expected anger. Vindication. Control snapping back into place like a blade sliding home. Instead, something feral coils low in my chest.
She's on the couch, curled around him like gravity itself bends toward her. Amauri fits against her the way he was built to, small body molded into the curve of her arms, fingers knotted in her shirt like letting go might break the world again.
She looks exactly like she did ten years ago when I found her, shattered, furious, and alive.
Fuck, she's under my skin. Again.
The kid loves her. That much is obvious. The way he clings. The way he keeps touching her as if she might vanish if he doesn't anchor her there. Every laugh, every breath, every quiet reassurance comes from her. She didn't just keep him alive. She raised him right. That lands harder than anything else.
I spent hours with him on the plane. Hours watching him worry about the wrong man. Watching him call Whitford dad with a loyalty that didn't belong to him. Every time the word left his mouth, it tested a restraint I hadn't realized I possessed. I didn't kill Whitford for two reasons: I needed answers, and Amauri was watching. But make no mistake, every second that man stole my place is permanently carved into me, and I'll make him bleed for it.
Now it's quiet. No blood. No shouting. No bargaining. Just the three of us. The way it should have been all along. The realization hits me clean and brutal: I'm never letting this go.
Not him.
Not her.
Not again.
I don't care why she didn't come to me. I don't care what lies she believed or who fed them to her. I don't care if she loves me or I her. Love is irrelevant.
What matters is claim.
What matters is that my son is here—breathing, warm, safe—and she is the axis around which everything in him revolves. Which makes her essential. Non-negotiable. A fixed point in a world that bends to my will.
I want what was stolen from me. I want my child. And I want her. Not because she's weak. Not because she needs saving. Because she's strong enough to survive me, and stubborn enough to try to walk away again.
She won't.
Not this time.
She made her choice ten years ago without knowing all the pieces. That mistake won't repeat itself. I'll make sure of it. She will stand at my side. At my son's side. In my world. Whether she wants to or not.
Because whatever she thinks this is—whatever illusion of freedom she still clings to—there is one truth she will learn again, slowly and inexorably: I keep what's mine.
And she has always been mine.
But now's not the time for lessons.
I don't move closer. I don't interrupt. I don't claim anything. I give them this. Amauri is already half-asleep against her, breath soft, trusting in a way that hurts to witness. Jenna's eyes are glassy with exhaustion, her hand rhythmically stroking hishair like the motion itself is required to keep him here. They need this moment. They've earned it. I step back quietly, the way you do when you understand that presence can be an intrusion. A few hours of sleep. A locked door. Guards doubled. Silence.
I'll give them that.
