Chapter 18
JACE
The scotch burns going down, but it doesn’t touch the chaos in my head.
I stand at the window of our guest house, watching the main drive where a POD container is being unloaded by a team of movers Charles hired. Parker’s things. Five years of California life packed into a metal box that’s about to be unpacked into the house next door.
Fifty yards away. She’ll be fifty yards away.
With her sons.
I almost lost it before the funeral yesterday when Charles told us that not only was Parker going to start working for the Carter name again, but that she and her sons would be moving into the big guest house next door to the one Cal, Silas, and I share.
Fuck.
The whole funeral, I made myself busy watching the room. Clocking the exits, observing the guests, tolerating the show—anything to avoid thinking about how in twenty-four hours she’d be next door.
At least the murmurs and stares and awkward condolences shared with her during the receiving line gave some entertainment.
She handled it like she handled everything else—chin up, shoulders back, that Carter steel in her spine even when I could see her hands trembling slightly when she thought no one was looking.
A lot of the elders, some loyal, others still living in ridiculous fear that Dominic would rise from his casket at the audacity of Parker being brought back home, didn’t hide their apprehension well.
Charles was right. Parker’s return by itself would have been a big deal, but to return with two sons that no one knew existed made a lot of the bosses uneasy. Parker had disappeared six years ago with little explanation from Dominic regarding the decision to disown her.
He was nervous after she left. I had thought for maybe a second that he probably missed her, maybe he actually cared about her, but that was a short second.
He tightened the reins around all of us, pulled all the surveillance Cal had done on her over the years, logged every fucking call, scoured travel itineraries—we couldn’t have looked for her without setting off alarms. It was his way or the incinerator.
The man was old, but he was crazy as hell.
Behind me, Cal’s fingers fly across his keyboard with that particular intensity that means he’s hunting. Chasing digital shadows. Looking for answers in places most people don’t know exist.
“Anything?” I ask, not turning from the window.
“Nothing.” Frustration bleeds through his normally controlled voice.
“Birth certificates are sealed under her mother’s maiden name—Richardson.
Medical records from California are locked down tighter than most government facilities.
I can get through it, but it’ll take time and leave traces I’m not sure we want right now. ”
“Traces that lead back to us hacking into records for two children,” I say quietly. “That Charles might ask about.”
“Exactly.” Cal’s chair creaks as he leans back. “She built her digital fortress well. Too well for someone who used to panic when her laptop froze.”
The implication hangs heavy. She learned. She prepared. She knew she’d need to hide.
From us? From the Carter name? From whoever their father is?
Except we know. We know. The timeline is screaming it. January to October. Nine months. Two boys that were born on October tenth, and we’d had her in January. The night of Charles’s wedding. The night everything changed.
“They’re five,” Silas says from his position sprawled in the leather chair by the fireplace. It’s the first thing he’s said in an hour. Maybe longer. His voice is rough, like he’s been gargling gravel.
He’s been like this since the funeral. Since we saw them. Since Parker stood at the graveside with one arm around each boy, looking like she was holding the only things in the world that mattered.
“We don’t know for certain—” I start, but Cal cuts me off with a sharp laugh.
“Don’t we?” He spins his chair to face us. “Jace, I saw that kid’s eyes. Amber. My exact shade. The same way they catch light, the same shape. And the other one—” He looks at me. “Dark hair, blue-gray eyes, serious as hell. Looks like you did in every childhood photo I’ve ever seen.”
“Circumstantial,” I say, but my voice lacks conviction.
“Math isn’t circumstantial.” Cal stands and starts pacing. “She left January twentieth. The boys were born on October tenth. The timeline is exact.”
“So what?” Silas finally moves, sitting forward with his elbows on his knees. “We demand a paternity test? Corner her and force answers? That’ll go over well with Charles. Hey man, we need Parker to give us DNA samples of her sons because we all fucked her six years ago.”
The mention of our brother—Parker’s twin—makes us all pause. Because that’s the other bomb waiting to detonate. Charles has no idea what happened six years ago. No idea that the night he got married, his three best friends crossed every line with his sister.
No idea that his nephews might be—
“He volunteered us to help her move in,” I say, redirecting before we spiral further. “Said she’d need muscle for the heavy furniture.”
“Of course he did.” Cal’s laugh is bitter. “Because why wouldn’t he have the three men who are losing their minds put his sister’s bed together? It’s a great idea.”
“We’re not losing our minds,” I correct. “We’re maintaining operational focus during a transitional period.”
“You sound like a manual,” Silas mutters.
“Better than sounding like I’m about to put my fist through a wall.” I drain my scotch, set the tumbler down with controlled precision. “Which is what you look like.”
Silas doesn’t deny it. His hands are clenched into fists, knuckles white. That particular stillness he gets before violence radiates from him like heat.
“Five years,” he says again. “She’s been raising them for five years. Alone. While we were here, thinking—” He stops, jaw working. “What were we thinking, Jace? That she was happy? That she’d moved on? That some other man—”
“Don’t.” The word comes out harder than I intend. “Don’t finish that sentence.”
Because the thought of another man touching her, of someone else being the father of those boys, makes something violent and possessive rise in my chest. Something I’ve spent years trying to bury.
“Charles said they’re coming over in twenty minutes,” Cal says, checking his watch. “We’re supposed to help carry boxes and pretend we’re not dying to know if those kids are ours.”
“They’re not ours,” I say automatically.
“Even if—genetically—even if the timeline matches, they’re hers.
She’s raised them. Protected them. Built a life for them away from all this.
” I gesture vaguely at the window, at the compound, at the empire we help Charles maintain. “Maybe that’s why she left.”
“To protect them from us?” Silas’s voice goes dark. “From their own fathers?”
“From the Carter legacy,” I correct. “From being pawns in games played by dangerous men. From being exactly what Dominic would have made them.”
The truth of it settles like ash. Dominic would have used those boys. Would have seen them as leverage, as assets, as ways to secure alliances or cement power. Would have taken them from Parker and shaped them into weapons.
“She was protecting them,” Cal says quietly. “From her father. From this life. Maybe from us too.”
“We would never—” Silas starts.
“Wouldn’t we?” Cal challenges. “If we’d known she was pregnant six years ago, what would we have done? Let her go? Let her raise them alone?” He shakes his head. “We would’ve kept her here. Kept her safe. Kept her locked down so tight she couldn’t breathe, just like she hated growing up.”
The accusation hangs heavy because it’s true. We were overbearing, controlling, and suffocating. We told ourselves it was protection, but Parker experienced it as prison.
“This time is different,” I say firmly. “This time, we let her lead. We let her tell us what she wants, what she needs. We don’t assume. We don’t take over. We don’t make decisions for her.”
“Even if those kids are ours?” Silas demands.
“Especially if those kids are ours.” I meet his eyes, then Cal’s. “Because if we’ve learned anything in six years, it’s that Parker Carter doesn’t respond to cages. She responds to choices.”
A knock at the door makes us all freeze.
“Hey!” Charles’s voice carries through the wood. “You guys ready? Parker’s here with the boys. They’re excited about the motorcycles, by the way. Fair warning.”
The three of us exchange glances. Some kind of silent agreement passes between us without words.
Game faces. Operational mode. Support Charles, help Parker, don’t scare the children.
Don’t stare at two five-year-olds and try to find ourselves in their faces.
Don’t calculate genetics while lifting boxes.
Don’t let anyone see that our entire world is fracturing while we pretend everything is fine.
I open the door to find Charles grinning, completely oblivious to the tension radiating from our house.
Behind him, Parker stands with her hands on her sons’ shoulders.
She’s in jeans and a simple t-shirt, hair pulled back, no makeup.
She looks younger without the armor of California polish.
More like the girl I remember. The one who used to sneak into our garage and sit on Silas’s motorcycle pretending to race.
Less like the over-thirty-year-old grown woman in front of us now.
And the boys. God, the boys.
The dark-haired one—Liam, she’d said—stands perfectly still, watching us with those blue-gray eyes that are a mirror of my own. His posture is straight, contained, and already assessing.
The other—Noah—practically vibrates with energy, amber eyes bright with excitement as he spots the motorcycles lined up in our garage.
“Are those yours?” Noah bursts out, pointing. “Uncle Charles said you have motorcycles, but I didn’t know they were right there!”
“Noah,” Parker’s voice is gentle but firm. “Inside voices. And we talked about asking permission before—”
“Can we see them? Please?” Noah’s already moving toward the garage, and Parker’s hand shoots out to catch his shoulder.
“Boys, these are the men I told you about. Remember?” She meets my eyes for the first time since the funeral, and I see fear and determination warring in her expression. “This is Jace, Cal, and Silas. They’re Uncle Charles’s friends. And ours.”
“The motorcycle guys!” Noah’s enthusiasm is infectious, impossible to resist. “Mom said you used to ride all the time. That you taught her to drive.”
“We tried,” Cal says, and his voice is almost normal. Almost. “Your mom was very stubborn about doing things her own way.”
“She’s still stubborn,” Liam observes with the serious tone of someone much older than five. “She says it’s determination.”
A smile tugs at my mouth despite everything. “She would.”
Parker’s cheeks flush slightly. “Boys, why don’t you wait with Uncle Charles while I show Jace, Cal, and Silas what needs to be carried?”
“But the motorcycles—” Noah starts.
“Later,” Parker promises. “If they say it’s okay, you can look later. Right now, we have work to do.”
Charles scoops both boys up with practiced ease, one under each arm, making them shriek with laughter. “Come on, troublemakers. Let’s go see if Lottie and Jimmy want to play.”
He carries them toward the main house, and suddenly we’re alone with Parker on our doorstep.
The silence is deafening.
“So,” she says finally, crossing her arms. “Charles volunteered you. You don’t have to—”
“We want to help,” I cut her off. “With the move. Whatever you need.”
Her eyes search my face, then move to Cal, then Silas. Looking for something. Finding it, maybe, in the tension we’re all barely containing.
“Okay,” she says quietly. “Thank you.”
She turns to head back to her house, and the three of us follow, keeping a careful distance. Professional. Helpful. Not at all like three men desperately trying to reconcile the woman we knew with the mother she’s become.
Not at all like three men who just met children who might be theirs and can’t ask the only question that matters.
Because Parker asked for time. For space. For one day to bury her father before we demanded answers.
And we’re going to give it to her.
Even if it kills us.
Even if every instinct screams to know the truth.
We’ll wait.
But not much longer.