Chapter 27
TEDDY
The motel room feels foreign now—too empty.
I've been living in Silas's trailer for the past few days, wrapped in the warmth of their bodies, their acceptance, their complete upending of everything I thought I knew about myself.
Being here alone, surrounded by case files and the detritus of my old life, feels like putting on clothes that no longer fit.
But I need my laptop and files for what comes next. To be honest, a part of me is surprised by how easily they let me go. No shadowing, no demands for constant check-ins. Just Silas pressing a kiss to my temple and Nova squeezing my hand before I headed out.
Trust. They trust me not to run, not to betray them, not to revert to the federal agent who stumbled into their world a week ago.
The realization is warm in my chest as I boot up my laptop, spreading the Sanctum files across the questionable bedspread. Time to prove that trust isn't misplaced.
I work methodically for two hours, cross-referencing survivor databases with professional credentials.
Educational backgrounds, career trajectories, current positions in child welfare organizations.
The parameters are specific—advanced degrees, leadership experience, and most importantly, a childhood that ended abruptly when they were removed from the Sanctum.
My phone buzzes. A text from Nova:
Miss you already.
She attached a picture of her naked breasts, her free hand playing with one nipple.
Growling, I type back:
Just you wait until I get home.
Home. The word feels natural, right. Because somehow, in the span of a few days, I've started thinking of their space as home. Their mission as mine. Their family as the place I belong.
While the thought should terrify me, it makes me work faster, more determined to find the key to their plan. I want to speed this up, want to get back to them and the strange new life we're building together.
Time to call in a favor.
I scroll through my contacts until I find Ethan Kane's number. We've stayed in touch since the stalker case—professional courtesy that evolved into an almost friendship. If anyone can help me find a Sanctum survivor with the right credentials, it's him.
The phone rings three times before his familiar irreverent voice comes through the speaker.
“Coleman. To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“Ethan. I need your help with the Sanctum of Ash case.”
His tone sharpens immediately. “What kind of help?”
“Remember all that research you did on survivors? The ones who went legit, built respectable careers?”
“Yeah. Why?”
I choose my words carefully. “I'm working an angle that requires finding a specific type of survivor. Someone with advanced degrees in social work or child psychology. Someone currently running or capable of running a major charitable foundation focused on at-risk youth.”
The line goes quiet for a moment. “That's... weirdly specific. And maybe a bit sensitive.”
“I know. But it's important, Kane. More important than I can explain over the phone.”
Another pause. Then: “Alright. Give me two hours. I'll see what I can pull together.”
“Two hours?” I'm surprised by the speed. Kane’s good, but two hours seems fast even for a master.
“I never stopped working this case, man. Even after everything with Basia's stalker got resolved, I kept digging. The Sanctum of Ash isn't done hurting people, and I'm not done hunting them.”
The conviction in his tone makes me realize I'm not the only one who's been changed by exposure to this case. “Thanks, Ethan. I owe you one.”
“You owe me nothing. I just hope this is for the right reasons.”
I think about the children disappearing from Malachi's programs. “It is.”
“Good enough for me. I'll be in touch.”
The line goes dead, and I lean back in the cheap motel chair, staring at the ceiling. Two hours to kill. Two hours to sit with the magnitude of what I'm doing.
I'm actively helping vigilantes hunt a cult leader. Using federal resources to aid in what amounts to an elaborate revenge plot. Prioritizing personal justice over legal process.
A month ago, this would have been unthinkable. Now? It feels like the most important work I've ever done.
My phone rings sooner than expected. An hour and forty-seven minutes, to be precise.
“That was fast,” I answer.
“I found your unicorn,” Ethan says without preamble. “And she's perfect.”
“She?”
“Dr. Rebecca Morrison. PhD in Child Psychology from Northwestern, MSW from University of Chicago. Currently runs the Morrison Foundation for Child Welfare, based out of Denver. Annual budget of twelve million, serves over three thousand at-risk youth every year.”
I grab my pen, scribbling notes. “Background?”
“Rebecca, no known last name at the time, surfaced in Chicago as a young teen with no real identity. Foster family took her in, helped her get clean documentation.”
I narrow my eyes at the odd word choice. “Clean how?”
Ethan grunts. “The kind of clean that suggests someone with resources wanted her to have a fresh start.”
A survivor who got lucky. Who found protection and used it to build something meaningful. “What else?”
“She's been vocal about systemic failures in child protection.
Written articles, given speeches about how institutions fail vulnerable kids.
She's also...” He pauses. “She's been very critical of charitable organizations that operate without proper oversight. Specifically organizations that claim to help children but seem to exist primarily to enrich their leadership.”
My pulse quickens. “Sounds like she already knows what to look for.”
“There's more. She's married to David Morrison, investment banker, old money Denver family. No kids of their own, but they've fostered half a dozen teenagers over the years. All kids who aged out of the system, needed that extra support to transition to adulthood.”
I nod, even though Ethan can’t see me. “She's a protector.”
“Through and through. One more thing. She's also been a vocal supporter of Langford's efforts to investigate the Sanctum of Ash. She was quoted in the Denver Post calling for federal intervention in cases of organized child abuse.”
Perfect. Better than perfect. A survivor who's already publicly committed to the cause, with the credentials and resources to take over Malachi's empire from within.
“I owe you dinner when this is all over,” I tell him.
Ethan chuckles. “Buy me a beer and we'll call it even.” He pauses. “Take care, Coleman. These people are dangerous. They've got reach, resources, and decades of practice covering their tracks.”
“I'll be careful,” I promise. “Tell Caleb I said hi when you see him. And Basia too, of course.”
After we hang up, I spend another hour pulling together everything I can find on Dr. Rebecca Morrison. Public records, newspaper interviews, foundation financials. The picture that emerges is of a woman who turned childhood trauma into a life mission of protecting other children.
She's exactly what we need.
My phone buzzes again. This time it's Silas:
How's the manhunt going?
Found her. Ideal candidate. Heading back now.
Good. Nova's getting impatient. She wants to celebrate your success properly.
My cock twitches in my pants. Just the thought of Nova's hands on me, of Silas's mouth, of being caught between them again...
I close the laptop and gather my files with hands that aren't quite steady. Time to go home. Time to give my new family the key to their justice.
Twenty minutes later, I'm pulling into the carnival lot. The lights feel welcoming now instead of threatening, the sounds familiar instead of foreign. I park next to Silas's trailer—our trailer—and grab my laptop bag.
Inside, I find them exactly where I hoped: tangled together on the couch, Nova reading while Silas sketches in a leather-bound notebook. They look up when I enter, and the warmth in their eyes makes my chest tight with emotion I'm not ready to name.
“Success?” Nova asks, closing her book.
I set down my bag and move to join them on the couch, Silas shifting to make room so I can settle between them. Nova's legs drape over my lap, Silas's arm comes around my shoulders, and for the first time all day, I can breathe properly.
“Better than success,” I tell them. “I found our insider. And she's going to be perfect for this.”
I tell them about Dr. Rebecca Morrison, watching their faces light up as I describe her background, her credentials, her very public commitment to protecting children from the kind of monsters they're hunting.
“A survivor who made it out and used her freedom to protect other kids,” Nova says softly. “She'll understand exactly what's at stake.”
“The question is how we approach her,” Silas muses, his fingers drawing patterns on my shoulder. “Can't exactly send a formal invitation.”
“Actually,” I say, “I might be able to arrange a meeting. Official business. The FBI is always investigating connections between missing children and charitable organizations. I could request an interview with her about best practices, red flags to watch for.”
“And during that interview?” Nova asks.
“I tell her the truth. About Malachi, about the Bellmour Youth Initiative, about children who are still being hurt. And I ask her if she's willing to help us save them.”
Silas's grin is sharp, pleased. “I love it. Using official channels to recruit our revolutionary.”
“She won't refuse,” Nova says with certainty. “Not if she's really a survivor. Not if she understands what Malachi is still doing to kids.”
I think about Rebecca Morrison's public statements, her foundation's mission, the life she's built dedicated to protecting vulnerable children. Nova's right. A woman like that won't be able to walk away from the chance to stop a predator.
“So we have our next step,” I say, settling deeper into their warmth. “I contact Dr. Morrison, arrange a meeting, and we see if she's willing to join our crusade.”
“Our crusade,” Nova repeats, and I can hear the satisfaction in her voice. “I like the sound of that.”
Silas presses a kiss to my temple. “Welcome home, Agent Coleman.”
The words settle the restlessness within. Home. Family. Purpose. Everything I didn't know I was looking for until I found it in the most unlikely place.
“It's good to be home,” I tell them, and mean every word.