Chapter 14 Jace
Jace
“…He’s devolving. If he was comfortable brutalizing his son—the one his fucking cult fucking worships—then who knows what he’ll do next.”
Patel swore under his breath as he listened to my recounting of Elior’s abuse. “The BSU called it, but we hoped it wouldn’t happen. Poor kid. Is there any way you can try to document his injuries?”
“He’s not a kid,” I muttered, though the word stung because part of me did think of him that way—small, gentle, breakable. “If he were a kid, we wouldn’t even be talking right now.”
“I know, I’m sorry,” Patel murmured, his emotions seeping through his uniform.
“I…” I exhaled, hating that I was about to betray Elior’s trust—although technically, I’d already been doing that every day. “I have photos. Took them while he was sleeping. I’ll send them through.”
Patel was silent for the minute it took for the photos to load. Then he grunted, “Fuck. That’s worse than anything we’ve recorded so far.” Patel hesitated before continuing, “There’s something else I wanted to bring up. You asked us to look into his mother.”
My pulse stilled. “And?”
“We pulled up the archived missing persons list. She’s been gone for twenty-four years. Parents reported her missing just after her 18th birthday.”
My grip tightened on the phone. “I wish I were surprised.”
Patel huffed out a strained laugh. “Same here.”
“I don’t have anything solid on this, but I get the feeling Malachi killed her after Elior’s birth. Maybe I’m wrong, and she died from complications of childbirth, but either way, if he kidnapped her or some shit…”
Patel was quiet for several seconds, and when he finally spoke, his voice sounded brittle.
“We looked into her parents, too,” he said.
“They reported her missing, but the report went nowhere. Barely any follow-up, no search warrant, nothing. Since she was eighteen, well, you know… Anyway, the local deputy assigned to the case retired the same year.” He paused. “It reads like a cover-up.”
Of course it did.
“Jace,” Patel said gently, “your instincts are usually dead-on. If you think he killed her—”
“I know he did,” I snapped. Then forced my voice lower. “I just can’t prove it yet.”
“See if Ransom ever mentioned anything to the kid. Maybe there’s a grave nearby? We could exhume the remains.”
I dragged a hand through my hair. “Yeah.”
“Listen,” Patel said, regaining his professional tone. “This makes the situation more urgent. If Malachi’s capable of killing his partner, then raising the child as a religious… whatever-the-hell-he’s calling him—and now physically torturing him—this escalation isn’t random.”
“I know,” I said quietly. “It’s stress behavior. Loss of control. He’s spiraling.”
“And spirals end one of two ways,” Patel said darkly. “Burnout or bloodshed.”
My jaw clenched. Hard enough to send a spike of pain down my neck. “I’m not going to let him hurt Elior again.”
“You can’t intervene too directly unless he’s in immediate danger.”
“He is in immediate danger,” I growled.
“Agent,” Patel said, “we need you to stay calm. You’re too close to the finish line for this.”
I pressed my thumb against the tense spot between my eyebrows, trying—and failing—to summon the detachment I’d relied on for years.
“I know,” I answered quietly.
“We’re working on fast-tracking the takedown timeline,” he said.
“But we need at least one more piece of evidence. Something that proves systemic abuse of the Vessel role. Something we can show the AUSA and get warrants in motion. If you believe his life is immediately at risk, you blow the cover. We’ll back you.
Just—please don’t rush it. Not unless you have to. ”
I nodded, even though he couldn’t see me.
“Be careful, Jace. And keep him safe however you can. He’ll be a great resource for us.”
I ended the call the second the word ‘resource’ left his mouth.
It was hypocritical of me, maybe, because I’d thought of him as such until I suddenly hadn’t anymore.
Elior wasn’t some case file they’d plug into a database, or something to squeeze for intel—something to use.
My jaw flexed until it popped. I wanted to throw something, but I didn’t. Couldn’t. I needed control. I needed to stay steady.
For him.
I set the phone down on the desk a little harder than I should have and braced both palms on the wood, bowing my head. My breath came fast through my nose.
Elior wasn’t a resource.
He was a bleeding heart. He was a confused, hurting boy, trying so hard to do what was expected that he didn’t even know what care looked like until I gave it to him.
And yet I had to let him suffer for just a bit longer.
My fingers curled into fists on the counter.
A humorless laugh slipped out of me as I considered a different problem, one that I needed the FBI for.
Elior would never leave this place on his own, not unless his father were dead or in custody. He’d never agree to come with me if I tried to sneak him out before shit went down.
So the only way this would end—the only way I could keep him—was if Malachi Ransom was gone. And for that to happen, I needed to keep my cover, get the agency what they needed, and hold him tight as his world collapsed around him.
Then I’d take Elior far away from this place—from his father, from his pain, from all of it—and he’d finally, truly, be only mine.
* * *
I stood silently in the doorway of Elior’s bedroom, taking a second to look at him without him knowing. He lay on his stomach, face towards the wall. The thin blanket had been pushed down to his waist, and his shirt taken off. His back was a mess of swollen lines and purpling welts.
“Hey, cherub,” I murmured, closing the door behind me.
Elior turned his head and gave me a timid smile, the kind that tried too hard to pretend everything wasn’t awful. “Hi.”
I pulled the desk chair next to the bed, setting down the bowl of warm water and salve I’d heated up in his small kitchen.
He looked at the materials with hesitation. “You don’t have to—”
“Yes,” I cut in, sitting down. “I do. We can’t let this get infected, baby.”
I wrung out the cloth and touched it to his skin. He shuddered.
“Sorry,” I said, lowering my voice. “I’ll be careful.”
“I know,” he whispered. “I trust you.”
I cleaned the dried blood from the highest lash mark. He made a small sound, swallowed it, then pretended nothing had happened. My hand paused.
“You okay?” I asked quietly.
He gave me a little nod. “It just… stings a little.”
I pressed a gentle kiss to the side of his head, then smoothed his hair down. His wide eyes peeked up at me through his lashes before skittering away when he realized I’d seen him looking.
I smiled to myself, then continued, minutes passing in soft hisses of breath from me tending to him.
When the last of the welts was cleaned, I dipped two fingers into the salve and began smoothing it along the angriest lines.
His shoulders curled inward like he was trying to make himself small, but my brave boy didn’t pull away.
It wasn’t until I reached the lowest stripe, near the curve of his ribs, that I spoke. “I was thinking about my mom today.”
“Oh, why? Do you miss her?” Elior asked, concerned but curious. After all, I hadn’t talked much about myself during my time in the compound.
“Maybe. I saw a mom with her kid earlier, and it just made me think of her. We weren’t a touchy-feely kind of family.
I think sometimes I wish things had gone differently,” I said, not lying, exactly, but exaggerating my feelings to relate to him.
It was more than a little obvious he was touch-starved.
Elior hummed sadly, brows drawn together. “I’m sorry. Maybe you could bring her here? I’m sure Father would welcome her.”
“I would if I could, but she’s been gone for a long time.”
“She’s in Heaven?”
I nodded, looking down at him. “Pancreatic cancer. It at least took her fast.”
Elior’s expression folded, all quiet sympathy and earnest grief on my behalf. He really felt things too deeply.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered.
“Yeah,” I murmured. “Me too.”
I smoothed another stripe of salve over the welt near his ribs, trying to keep my touch steady.
“Losing a parent… it sticks with you. Even if you didn’t know them as well as you wanted to,” I said.
“Mm.” He shifted minutely under my hand—just enough to tell me he was listening, not enough to cause more pain.
I let the silence breathe a little, then softly, asked, “You ever think about yours?”
Elior’s breath hitched like he was surprised to be asked about her. He hesitated before answering, “I… don’t know much about my mom.”
I kept my eyes on his back, giving him space. “Nothing?”
“Father says she died right after I was born,” he murmured. “So I never knew her.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, voice barely above a whisper.
“But there’s something,” he whispered, so quietly it was almost soundless. “Like—like a feeling.” His fingers curled in the sheets, twisting them.
“A feeling? Like what?”
He swallowed. “Like she was… the loveliest person.”
Oh, baby.
“Loveliest?” I echoed, trying to keep the strain from my voice.
Elior nodded against the pillow. “I don’t know why I think that. I just—” His eyes drifted halfway closed, lashes trembling. “Sometimes I feel this warmth under my ribs. Like a little sunbeam that never goes out. Like she left it there for me.”
Christ.
I had to exhale slowly just to keep myself from showing how hard that hit.
His heart was so miraculously untouched by all the filth around him. He was so innocent, so naive and sweet that it hurt.
“What do you think she was like?” I asked, barely trusting my voice.
“I think she was gentle,” he whispered. “And kind. The kind of person who smiled softly. Someone who would have loved me even if I wasn’t…” His throat tightened. “…even if I wasn’t the Vessel. Even if I was just… me. Just Elior.”
“She loved you,” I said quietly. “There’s no way she couldn’t have. I bet she loved you from the moment you were created. I bet she loved you more than anything.”
Elior went still. “Really? You really think so?” Tears slid from the corners of his eyes. I used my thumb to catch a few.
“Yeah, baby.”
His shoulders loosened, just a fraction. Enough for me to know he believed me. Elior eased onto his side, facing me, face soft with exhaustion but open in a way he never let himself be with anyone else.
“You’re always so kind to me,” he murmured. “Thank you.”
I brushed my thumb across his temple, just once. “You don’t have to thank me for that, sweet boy.”
“Stay?” he whispered.
I didn’t even hesitate. “Yeah, cherub. I’ll stay.”
Turning off the lamp, I moved the bowl and other supplies onto his desk, then slipped into his bed. It was a tight fit, but you’d never hear me complain about it.
As I settled in next to him, Elior nuzzled his head into my bicep and shyly asked, “Can you tell me about your family?”
“What would you like to know?”
Elior hesitated, then whispered, “Everything. But only if you want to.”
He really meant it—he wanted to know me.
I rested my free hand on the side of his arm, my thumb brushing slow, steady circles. “Alright,” I murmured. “I’ll tell you.”
He blinked up at me, wide-eyed and waiting.
“My mom… her name was Maria,” I began quietly. “She was from the Philippines. My dad met her while he was on vacation with a friend. Total chance encounter. They bumped into each other on a ferry, spilled a soda, and somehow that turned into a whole conversation.”
Elior’s lips curved. “That sounds so nice.”
“It was,” I said, smiling faintly. “They became pen pals afterward. Actual letters—stamps, envelopes, everything. Mom kept every single one in a shoebox.”
“You still have them?” he asked, curious.
“No,” I said gently. “They’re long gone now. But I remember some of the stories. She wrote about her siblings, her mom’s cooking, the street markets she went to. And he wrote about working too much.” I huffed softly. “Which he did, even back then.”
Elior nodded, listening like each word mattered.
“After a year of letters and long-distance calls, she moved to the U.S. to try a life with him. Big leap of faith.” My voice softened. “She was brave like that.”
“Like you,” Elior whispered.
“Maybe.” I smiled. “My dad—his name was Robert—he was a good guy, just distant. He traveled a lot for work, so growing up it was mostly me and Mom. And she…” I chuckled under my breath. “She had expectations.”
“Expectations?” Elior asked.
“High ones. She wanted me to be the best at everything.” I took a slow breath. “Sometimes it felt like she was trying to prove something by raising a perfect son in a country that wasn’t her own.”
“That sounds hard,” Elior murmured.
“Nah, it wasn’t all bad,” I said. “She cared. A lot. And she loved me. Even when she pushed too hard.”
I felt him relax a little against me, like he was relieved to hear someone could push too hard and still love you.
“I kept her family name,” I added, biting my tongue when I almost gave him my real name. He’d know it eventually. “To honor where she came from. She wanted that. And… I wanted to keep the connection.”
“That’s great,” Elior whispered.
“She got sick when I was about to graduate college,” I continued. “The cancer was aggressive.”
Elior lifted his hand and rested it gently on my chest, as if trying to soothe me. He had no idea what that did to me.
“I’m sorry,” he said softly. “I wish she could have stayed longer.”
“Me too,” I whispered, although I wasn’t sure whether that was the truth. She knew too much about the true me. “After she died, Dad and I tried to stay close. But we both traveled and worked and it just didn’t happen. Then he died in a car accident a few years after.”
Elior’s brows creased. “You lost both your parents so close together…”
“Yeah.” I swallowed. “It happens.”
He stroked my shirt with the tips of his fingers, like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to comfort me but wanted to try.
“Do you have any brothers or sisters?” he asked gently.
“Sister and a brother.” I shrugged lightly. “We never really connected. Nanay—that means my mom—she definitely favored them.”
“Oh,” he whispered. “That must have hurt.”
I looked down at him, at this sweet boy trying so hard to understand me. “I got used to it.”
Elior’s eyes shone with empathy—the deep, aching kind only someone so starved of affection could offer.
“I’m glad you told me,” he whispered. “I like… knowing you. All of you.”
I brushed his hair back from his forehead, letting my fingers linger. “I like you knowing me.”
He eased closer, pressing his cheek to my shoulder like it was the most natural thing in the world.
He yawned, then asked, “Will you tell me more someday?”
“Anything you want,” I whispered into his hair.
He sighed—content and safe—and let his eyes drift closed.
“Goodnight, baby.”
He mumbled sleepily, “G’night, Daddy.”