Chapter 8 Jace
Jace
“…the FBI is still withholding most information about last month’s operation at a secluded compound in rural Nebraska, but during a press conference earlier this morning, it was confirmed that charges have been pressed against the group’s leader, Malachi Ransom. Ransom has been in custody since—”
I pressed the remote, changing the channel. Dammit. All I’d done was go to the bathroom, but it’d been enough time for Elior to flip through the stations on his own, accidentally stumbling onto a news story about his father, of all people.
I shut off the TV completely and turned to face the couch.
Elior sat cross-legged, clutching a throw pillow to his chest so tightly that the cheap foam stuffing was poking out at the seams. He wasn’t crying; he looked worse, somehow—locked up, his whole body one tense muscle, his gaze fixed and glassy on the blank television.
I came around and knelt in front of him. “Hey,” I said softly. “Come back to me, cherub.”
He blinked a few times, slowly coming out of a shocked stupor, then focused on my face. For a second, I thought he’d look away, but he didn’t. His eyes held mine, and in the blue, I could see the panic swirling.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, voice thin. “I didn’t mean to… I didn’t think…”
I shushed him, tucking a strand of hair behind his ear. “You didn’t do anything wrong, baby. Just a bad coincidence.”
I was honestly pissed. Not at him. It just sucked that the first time in the four days he’d been home, he’d finally gotten the courage to use the damn remote, and this is what happened.
I reached for the pillow, prying it gently from his arms so I could wrap him up in mine. For a second, Elior didn’t move. Then, with a shudder that nearly undid me, he pressed his face to my shoulder and clung.
I hauled him into my lap, letting him curl against my chest, and rocked him in the rhythm that always worked to calm him down. He didn’t sob, not even when I pressed soothing kisses to his temple and hair; he just held on, silent and shaking.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
He nodded, more a tremor than an affirmation.
I let the quiet fill in around us. The clock on the microwave ticked. The fridge made a distant click. Outside, a car rolled by—normal sounds for a normal place, all so unlike the world Elior had come from.
Elior broke the silence. “I’m scared of how people think of us. What if the whole world hates me, Daddy?”
“Oh, cherub,” I sighed, holding him tight. “If anything, they hate your father. He’s the one in trouble, remember?”
“Do you think I could visit him? Just—just to check on him…”
“I’m sorry.” It wasn’t my call, and I needed him to understand. “That’s not something I can decide, Elior. That’s up to the judge and the people running his case. And honestly… even if they say you can… I couldn’t let you do that.”
He stayed silent, mulling it over, his cheek pressed to my shirt.
I could feel how hard he was thinking—trying to reconcile his memories with the new world I’d thrust him into.
Maybe he thought visiting Malachi would bring closure or prove something.
Maybe he thought it’d give him a way back to being the good son.
I stroked his back, then brought my hand under his chin, tipping it up so he was looking at me. “Daddy knows best, remember? Trust me, cherub.”
He looked up, a flicker of doubt in his gaze. “But if he’s hurting, I should be able to… I should…”
“No,” I interrupted, maybe more sharply than intended. But fuck, I hated the way Malachi still leeched into Elior’s head.
His jaw worked, mouth forming silent arguments he was too polite—or too conditioned—to say out loud.
I let the silence stretch, rocking him, thumb tracing lazy circles into the soft skin at his nape. Eventually, he exhaled, a shaky, surrendering sigh.
The past few days hadn’t been easy for either of us.
It was as if routine and structure were the only things holding him together at this point. Possibly our prolific sex life, too.
At first, I’d mistaken his quiet for contentment. But it hadn’t taken long for the cracks to show in his delicate, fabricated calm.
The first night, I’d woken to whimpers from his side of the bed.
He’d been tangled in the sheets, clutching his knees to his chest, eyes squeezed tightly shut.
I tried to draw him out of it with soft words, holding him until he stilled, and once he was calm, I pressed a gentle kiss to his forehead and told him he was safe, that it was just us here, always.
That seemed to help. But every night since, he’d slept less and less, nightmares stealing him away and leaving him raw.
He was gentler with me than he was with himself.
If I guided him, he followed. If I told him what to eat, when to rest, how to lay his head in my lap while I stroked the fine knots out of his hair, he obeyed without hesitation.
But if I hesitated for a moment—left a gap in the day for his own wants to assert themselves—he drifted, lost and increasingly adrift in his own head.
It shamed me how grateful I was that his first therapy appointment was tomorrow.
I’d spent years thinking professional shrinks were obstacles, interference to be eluded or manipulated, but right now, the idea of someone else taking a shift—someone trained to gently scoop up the pieces of him I couldn’t reach—felt like a gift.
Even if I didn’t trust the therapist not to try to poison the well between us.
Even if I half-suspected their entire agenda would be wrestling Elior’s loyalty away from me, one hour at a time. I’d take the risk.
Because I couldn’t have Elior if there were no Elior.
* * *
“What are you doing here?” I glared at the two familiar individuals sitting in the reception area.
Elior smiled cautiously at them, raising his hand for an awkward little wave. “Hi, Mr. Patel. Hi, Ms. Elena.”
Elena—Elior’s case worker or something, I didn’t quite remember—was already on her feet before I could say anything else.
“Hey, honey,” she said warmly, closing the distance between them with practiced ease.
She didn’t look at me at all. Her attention stayed firmly on Elior as she reached out—not touching, just hovering in that careful, trauma-informed way.
“It’s really good to see you. How have you been holding up since discharge? ”
Elior glanced back at me, a quick, instinctive check-in. I gave him a small nod.
“I’m… okay,” he said softly. “I think. Jace has been helping.”
Elena smiled, genuine and kind. “I’m really glad to hear that. Have you been sleeping at all?”
“A little,” he admitted.
“That’s something,” she said gently. “Your color is back, which is amazing. Have you been eating better since you’ve been home?”
I cleared my throat, irritation spiking. “You still haven’t answered my question.”
Patel stood then. He straightened his jacket and turned to face me, placing himself just far enough away from Elior that it wouldn’t look confrontational. Except by placing himself between us, he had made his intentions clear.
“Elena’s here for a follow-up,” he said evenly. “She wanted to check in with Elior after discharge. Make sure the transition’s going smoothly.”
“And you?” I asked flatly.
His mouth twitched. “I’m here to ensure that you followed instructions. That Elior actually made it to his appointment.”
I let out a short, humorless laugh. “You don’t honestly expect me to believe that’s the only reason.”
His eyes sharpened. “Careful.”
“Don’t think I didn’t notice how close you always were to him in the hospital.”
For a fraction of a second, something flickered across Patel’s face—annoyance, maybe. Then it was gone, replaced by cool professionalism.
“This is not about me,” he said quietly. “And it’s not about you, either. Don’t make it that.”
I stepped closer, lowering my voice. “Then what is it about, Patel? Because from where I’m standing, you’ve taken a personal interest in my partner.”
His jaw tightened. “No. I have taken a professional interest in a vulnerable victim whose well-being is still very much in question.”
I opened my mouth, ready to push back—
“Don’t,” he cut in, just as quietly. “He’s already anxious, and you’re not helping.”
I glanced past him.
Elior was still standing with Elena, nodding as she spoke, but his shoulders were tense, his fingers twisting together at his waist. He was listening, but part of him was already pulling inward.
Patel followed my gaze. “This appointment is stressful enough already. He doesn’t need you throwing a tantrum.”
I inhaled harshly through my nose, willing myself not to punch his stupid face. As calmly as I could, I said, “I’m not two. But you’re right, he doesn’t need any additional stress.”
We stood there in brittle silence for a moment.
Out of the corner of my eye, I caught movement at the reception desk.
The woman seated there had very obviously been watching us—her eyes flicking between faces, posture alert.
The second she noticed me looking, she bent over her keyboard with exaggerated focus, typing as if her life depended on it.
I rolled my eyes.
“Elior?” I called, his head jerking toward me. “Can you come talk with me for a second?”
He hesitated only a beat before excusing himself from Elena with a polite, “One second,” and coming over to me. I guided him a few steps down the hall, far enough that Patel and Elena couldn’t hear us without it being obvious they were trying.
I crouched slightly so we were eye level. The waiting room lights were too bright; they made the faint shadows under his eyes stand out.
“Hey,” I said quietly. “Remember what I told you?”
“Mhm.”
Before we’d left the house, I’d gone over it with him while he’d sat on the edge of the bed, his hands folded in his lap like he was about to be graded. I hadn’t liked the way his eyes kept searching my face for the “right” answers.
He was terrified of saying something wrong, scared of them taking him away from me and back to the hospital.
“They’re going to ask you about your home life,” I murmured. “That’s normal. You can say you feel safe. You can say you’re being supported. Both of those things are true.”
He nodded slowly.
“But,” I continued, thumb brushing over his knuckles, grounding him, “you don’t need to talk about our relationship dynamics. Not the names you call me. Not how we take care of each other. If they ask something that makes you uncomfortable, you can say that.”
He bit his bottom lip nervously, but nodded again.
“And if you get overwhelmed,” I added, “you can pause. You can ask for a break.” I leaned in just a little further, pressing a light kiss on his temple before continuing.
“You’re allowed to say ‘I don’t know’,” I reminded him.
“And you’re allowed to say ‘I don’t want to talk about that yet. ’ Got it?”
“You’ll be here when I’m done?”
“Of course, cherub. Right where you left me,” I promised.
“I wish you could come in with me,” he mumbled, dropping his head against my chest.
“I know, baby, and I’m sorry that I can’t. But it’ll be okay, and I’ll be right out here if you need me. Everything will be fine.”
“Okay.”
I squeezed his hand, then let go first, even though every instinct in me wanted to keep him close. “You’ve got this.”
A small, shy smile tugged at his mouth. He turned back toward the waiting room, posture straighter than before—still nervous, but feeling just a tiny bit braver.
Just then, a door opened, and out walked an older man. His hair was a mix of salt and pepper, his beard thick and full. He was dressed in a light blue sweater vest and loafers.
One hand stayed on the brass doorknob as he regarded the small group of people in his waiting room. His gaze ticked through each one of us before landing on my boy.
“Ah, you must be Elior,” he said, voice calm, smile welcoming. “I’m Mark. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
Elior shyly waved at him.
“Well, it’s just about time to start our session. Would you like to come back with me, Elior?”
Elior glanced back at me one last time, his fingers twitching like he wanted to reach for me.
I gave him a slow nod and a hopefully reassuring smile. You’re okay. Go.
“Okay,” he said softly to the therapist before joining him.
The door closed behind them with a click that sounded way louder than it should have.
And just like that, he was gone.
And I was stuck in a room with two annoyances for fifty minutes.
As I turned and walked over to a chair, I glared at Patel.
This was going to be a long fucking fifty minutes.