Chapter 20
SILAS
The cigarette tastes like ash and regret, but I light it anyway because my hands need something to do that isn’t putting holes through drywall.
The porch of our guest house faces away from Parker’s, a mercy, since I’ve spent the last three hours assembling furniture for children who might be mine and pretending my entire world isn’t fracturing with every breath.
They’re five years old, sharing a birthday in October.
The math is screaming. Has been screaming since yesterday at the funeral when I saw that lighter-haired boy look at Cal, and I watched his face go white. Since I saw the other one—serious, contained, watching everything—and recognized Jace in miniature.
There is no possibility of them being blood related to me because of the forced vasectomy my late parents had done to me. I can see Jace and Cal in them; maybe I'm glad that I don’t see myself in them.
I take a drag, let the smoke burn down to my lungs. It doesn’t help.
Nothing helps except but work. The physical act of building something, creating order, making things fit together when everything else is chaos. That’s why I volunteered for the bunk bed, for the dresser, for anything that let me use my hands and not think about—
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out, thumbing through emails while the cigarette dangles from my lips.
Three new messages from Aria’s email address. All marked urgent.
Subject: Security Concerns - Guest House
I don’t bother opening it. Just scroll down to the previous five she sent in the last two days.
She wants an on-site guard. Dedicated security presence at her guest house. Claims she doesn’t feel safe, that the perimeter security isn’t adequate, and that she needs someone stationed outside her door.
She’s on a private estate with armed guards rotating every four hours. She’s got panic buttons in every room. She’s literally down the street from the main house where Charles lives.
She doesn’t need more security; she just wants attention.
I roll my neck, feeling the tension crack up my spine. Delete the email without responding, like I’ve deleted the others. Like, I’ll delete whatever bullshit she sends tomorrow.
Another buzz. Another email. Same subject line.
Please, Silas. I just need to know someone’s watching. That I’m not alone here.
My jaw clenches. I take another drag, let the smoke curl out slowly while I stare at the words. I’ll reassign Petrov as her personal guard. He won’t live on site, but it’s most convenient since his bunk is in the house next door to hers.
I’m typing out the reassignment order when a crash echoes from Parker’s garage. Metal on concrete, followed by a string of creative cursing that’s definitely her voice.
I’m moving before I consciously decide to, cigarette flicked into the gravel, phone going back in my pocket as I cover the distance between our houses. The garage door is open, afternoon sun slanting through to illuminate—
Fuck me.
Parker stands in the middle of organized chaos, another POD container open behind her, and she’s attempting to maneuver a motorcycle down a wooden ramp by herself. A Triumph Street Twin, with a custom paint job in cream and copper that catches the light like jewelry.
She’s changed clothes, traded the crop tank for an oversized t-shirt that hangs off one shoulder, hair pulled up in a messy knot, a smudge of grease already decorating her cheek.
She’s got work gloves on, the kind with reinforced palms, and she’s grunting with effort as she tries to control several hundred pounds of bike on an incline.
“Little help?” she gasps, not looking up. “Or are you just going to stand there?”
I tuck my phone in my back pocket, already moving, closing the distance, my hands finding the handlebars opposite hers.
The bike steadies immediately between us, weight distributed, controlled.
“On three,” I say. “One. Two. Three.”
We guide it down together, smooth as breathing, and wheel it into the garage proper. She kicks the stand down and steps back, breathing hard, that smudge of grease making her look young. Reckless. Like the girl who used to sneak into our garage and sit on my Hayabusa pretending to race.
“Thanks,” she says, pulling off the gloves. “I thought I could—”
“Handle it yourself?” I finish, leaning against the workbench. “Yeah. You always think that.”
Her eyes flash. “I did handle it.”
“Mmm.” I light another cigarette, offering her one out of habit.
She surprises me by taking it. By leaning in close enough that I can smell her shampoo—something floral and clean—while I light it for her. She takes a drag like she’s done this before, exhales smoke toward the rafters.
“When did you start smoking?” I ask.
“I don’t. Not really.” She studies the cigarette like it’s a foreign object. “Just when I’m stressed. Or need my hands busy. Or—” She stops herself.
“Or when you’re about to tell me something you think I won’t like?”
Her laugh is sharp. Brittle.
I gesture to the Triumph. “She’s beautiful. Custom work?”
“Yeah.” Parker’s hand drifts to the seat, fingers tracing the copper detailing with obvious affection. “Bought her three years ago. Took me another year to get her exactly right.”
“You did the custom work yourself?”
“Most of it. Had a guy in Pasadena help with the paint, but the rest…” She shrugs. “Turns out I’m good with my hands when properly motivated.”
The innuendo hangs there, unintentional but impossible to ignore. I take a long drag instead of responding, studying her. The way she won’t quite meet my eyes. The tension in her shoulders. The white-knuckle grip on that cigarette.
“I didn’t know you rode,” I say finally.
“I didn’t. Not before.” Her hand drifts back to the bike. “Learned in California. There’s a lot that’s changed in six years.”
Yeah. No shit.
“Fair enough.” I push off the workbench and move closer to inspect the bike properly. The work is clean. Professional. “Who was unfortunate enough to teach you?”
She narrows her eyes at me. “I wasn’t that bad of a student when you three tried to teach me.”
“Says the worst student of all time.”
She rolls her eyes and shakes her head. “YouTube, mostly. Some guy at the shop where I bought her.” She takes another drag. “I wanted something that was mine. Something that reminded me of home without actually being home.”
“So you learned to ride.”
“So I learned to ride.” She stubs out the cigarette on the workbench, immediately looking guilty about it. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have—”
“It’s fine.” I hand her my own half-finished smoke. She takes it automatically, and something about the casual intimacy of sharing makes my chest ache. “What else is in the POD?”
“Oh.” Color creeps into her cheeks. “Um. The boys’ bikes.”
“They ride? Aren’t they a little young?”
“I’m the cool Mom, not crazy,” she smiles. “They’re pedal bikes that look like motorcycles. Little replicas.” She’s rambling now, words tumbling over each other. “They saw mine and wanted their own, and I thought it’d be cute. Something we could do together…”
“Parker.” My voice cuts through her spiral. “Breathe.”
She does. One shaky inhale, then another.
“Can I see them?” I ask.
She hesitates, then nods. Leads me back to the POD where two small bikes are secured—pedal-powered things painted to look like miniature motorcycles, complete with fake chrome and custom paint jobs that match her Triumph. One in dark blue with silver accents. One in bright red with black trim.
They’re perfect. Thoughtful. The kind of thing a mother does when she wants to share what she loves with her children.
“Noah’s is the red one,” she says quietly. “He’s more adventurous. Wants to go fast, doesn’t care about falling. Liam’s is the blue. He’s careful. Wants to understand how everything works before he tries it.”
Noah. Liam. I’ve barely spoken to them, just that brief moment yesterday when Charles carried them away, but I can already picture it. The cautious one and the wild one. Balance.
“You taught them?” I ask.
“Yeah. Started last summer. Liam picked it up in a day. Noah crashed into a rosebush and wanted to go again immediately.” She’s smiling now, soft and unguarded. “They’re good kids. Really good.”
“I know.”
“You don’t,” she says, and the smile fades. “You saw them for five minutes yesterday. You don’t know them.”
“Then let me.” The words come out rougher than I intend. “Let me know them, firefly. Let me—” I stop, jaw clenching around everything I want to say and can’t.
“Silas—”
“Those bikes. One’s got Cal’s coloring. One’s got Jace’s.” I meet her eyes, let her see everything I’m holding back. “You’re telling me that’s a coincidence?”
She goes very still. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Yes, you do.” I step closer, not touching but close enough to feel the heat radiating off her skin. “Blue and silver for the serious one who plans everything. Red and black for the wild one who jumps first. You gave them colors that match their—” I stop myself. “That match us.”
“It’s just paint,” she whispers.
“It’s not just paint, and we both know it.
” My hand comes up, almost touching her face, before I force it back down.
“You gave them bikes in our colors. You taught them to ride because—” My voice cracks.
“Because you wanted them to know something about where they come from. Even if you couldn’t tell them who. ”
Tears shine in her eyes. “Stop.”
“I can’t.” The admission comes out broken.
“I’ve been trying to stop thinking about everything since yesterday.
Trying to give you space, time, whatever you need.
But Parker—” I have to stop, collect myself.
“I don’t know if one of them is mine or if they’re both theirs or if I’m just the one who gets to watch from the sidelines, but either way—”
“Either way, what?” she challenges, and there’s steel underneath the tears now.
“Either way, they’re ours.” The word comes out fierce. Possessive. “Yours and ours. And I need—” Christ, I sound wrecked. “I need you to stop running, firefly. Stop hiding. Stop trying to do everything alone when we’re right fucking here.”
“I’m not running,” she protests. “I came back, didn’t I? I brought them home.”
“You came back because Dominic died. Because you had no choice.” The words are cruel but true. “If he were still alive, would you be here? Would we ever have known they existed?”
She flinches like I’ve struck her.
“That’s not fair,” she whispers.
“Isn’t it?” I’m crowding her now, backing her against the POD, my hands braced on either side of her shoulders.
Not touching, but close enough that she can feel me.
See me. Can’t avoid me. “You kept them from us for years. Five years of birthdays and first days of school and—” My voice breaks again.
“Five years of their lives we can never get back. So yeah, firefly, I’m asking.
If Dominic were still alive, would you have ever told us? ”
“I don’t know,” she admits, and the honesty of it guts me. “I was protecting them. From him. From the life he would have forced on them. From being pawns in games played by dangerous men.”
“We’re not Dominic.”
“No.” Her hand comes up, presses against my chest where my heart is trying to beat out of my ribs. “But you’re still dangerous. Still violent. Still part of a world that breaks people.”
“And you think we’d hurt them?” The question comes out quieter. More vulnerable than I’ve allowed myself to be in years.
“I think you’d die for them.” Her green eyes hold mine. “I think you’d kill for them. I think you’d burn the whole world down to keep them safe and never once ask if that’s what they needed.” Her voice cracks. “Just like you did with me.”
The truth of it sits between us like shrapnel.
“I’m not apologizing for taking care of you,” I say finally.
“We were boys trying to protect something precious, and we smothered you with it.” My hand finally moves, fingers ghosting along her jaw.
She doesn’t pull away. “But we’re not boys anymore.
And if those kids are ours—if we get a chance to be part of their lives—we’ll do what we do best.”
“Silas.”
“You’ll tell us when we’re fucking up.” I let myself smile slightly. “You’ve never had a problem calling us on our bullshit, Parker. Don’t start now.”
She laughs, watery and broken. “You make it sound so simple.”
“It’s not simple. It’s terrifying.” My thumb catches a tear before it falls. “But hiding in your garage, unpacking motorcycles by yourself while we’re fifty yards away? That’s not protecting them. That’s protecting you.”
“Maybe I need protecting too,” she whispers.
“From us?” The question hurts to ask.
“From this. From feeling—” She stops, shakes her head. “I can’t do this right now. Can we please just—can you help me unload the boys’ bikes? That’s all I’m asking. Just help me unload them, and we can talk about everything else later.”
It’s deflection. Avoidance. The same pattern we’ve been dancing since yesterday.
But I nod anyway. Step back. Give her space.
“Yeah, firefly. I can do that.”
We work in silence, lifting the small bikes down, setting them up in the garage beside her Triumph. The picture they make—three motorcycles, graduated sizes, a family in chrome and paint—does something dangerous to my chest.
“They’re going to love this,” I say, gesturing to her bike. “Riding their bikes around the compound.”
“I hope so.” She runs her hand over Noah’s red handlebars. “I want them to be happy here. To feel like this is home.”
“It is home.” I lean against the workbench, studying her. “Or it could be. If you let it.”
She doesn’t respond. Just stands there among the motorcycles and moving boxes, looking young and scared and so determined to be strong it makes me ache.
I should leave. Give her space.
But I can’t stop looking at her.
“You did good, firefly,” I say quietly. “With them. With this. With building a life when everything was against you.” I gesture to the bikes, to the garage, to everything she’s created. “You did real good.”
The tears come then, silent and steady, and I move without thinking. Pull her against my chest where she fits like she was made for it. Where she’s always fit.
“I’m scared,” she whispers into my shirt.
“I know.”
“Do you hate me?”
“Not possible.” My hand strokes down her hair, soothing. “There’s nothing you could tell me that would make me hate you, Parker. Nothing.”
She doesn’t believe me. I can feel it in the way she’s holding herself, still guarded even in my arms.
I know the boys can’t be mine. There’s no possible way, but their mom?
She’s ours.