Chapter 35 Jace #2
The words land like physical blows.
From across the gym, I hear the door open and close—Silas returning.
Parker has me pinned now, her forearm across my throat—not enough pressure to choke, but enough to make the point. Her face is inches from mine, and I can see everything she’s feeling written in those sea-glass eyes.
Hurt. Betrayal. Anger. Love.
Still love, despite everything.
“I’m sorry,” I say, and I mean it. “We fucked up. We let Charles get in our heads, let doubt override what we knew about you. It won’t happen again.”
“How do I know that?” she demands. “How do I know the next time things get complicated, the next time someone plants a seed of doubt, you won’t do the same thing?”
“Because we love you,” Cal says from where he’s still on the mat, pushing himself up to sitting. “Because we’re going to do better. Because—”
“Words are cheap,” Parker interrupts, but her forearm eases off my throat slightly. “Actions matter. Trust matters. Communication matters.”
She releases me, rolling off and getting to her feet in one fluid motion. Silas is standing at the edge of the mat now, holding a small clear bag with swabs and sample tubes inside, his expression somewhere between vindicated and approving.
Parker walks over to him, takes the bag without a word. Her movements are deliberate, controlled, as she opens it and removes what she needs.
She turns back to us—me still on the mat, Cal sitting a few feet away—and her expression is unreadable.
“Open,” she says, walking to me first.
I blink up at her, processing. “What—”
“Open your mouth, Jace.”
Understanding hits like cold water. The swabs. The sample tubes. She’s not asking us to take a paternity test.
She’s taking it herself. On her terms. Without asking permission.
I glance at Cal, who’s staring at Parker with something like shock mixed with resignation. Then I look back up at her—standing over me with a swab in one hand and a sample tube in the other, her expression daring me to refuse.
I open my mouth.
Parker swabs the inside of my cheek with clinical efficiency, no wasted movement, no hesitation. She caps the swab, places it in a tube, and pulls a marker from the bag. She writes a single letter on the label: J
Then she turns to Cal.
“Open.”
Cal doesn’t argue. Doesn’t question. Just opens his mouth and lets her swab his cheek with the same methodical precision. She caps it, labels it with a C, and sets it aside.
Silas steps forward without being asked, opening his mouth before she even turns to him.
Something shifts in Parker’s expression—gratitude, maybe, or acknowledgment. She swabs him, labels the tube with an S, and then she’s holding all three samples in her hands.
She looks at them for a moment, these small plastic tubes that contain answers we’ve been too afraid or too stupid to ask for directly. Then she tucks them into her sports bra, one by one, the samples disappearing against her skin.
The intimacy of it—the possessiveness—makes my chest tight.
“Ryan lied,” she says again, looking between the three of us. “To Charles, to Aria, probably to anyone who would listen. We didn’t have history. He wasn’t helping me in California. He’s not the father of my children. And if you’d just asked me instead of spiraling, I would have told you that.”
“You’re right,” I say, getting to my feet. Every muscle aches, and I know I’m going to have bruises tomorrow. “You’re absolutely right.”
“I’m still going to the gala with Ryan,” she continues, “because I already agreed, and because backing out now would cause more problems than it solves. But you need to understand—there’s nothing between us.
There never was. And if you can’t trust me on that, then we have bigger problems than Ryan Matthews’s lies. ”
Before any of us can respond, the gym door opens again.
“Alright boys, let’s see what you’ve got!” Charles’s voice booms through the space, cheerful and energetic.
And then I hear them—the thunder of small feet, the excited chatter of children.
“Uncle Silas! Uncle Silas, we’re here!” Jimmy’s voice.
“Mom! Charles said we could train with him and Uncle Silas!” Noah, breathless with excitement.
“Can we hit the bag? Please please please?” Liam, his voice identical to his brother’s.
Parker’s entire demeanor shifts—the warrior vanishing, the mother appearing in her place. Her shoulders soften, her expression opens, and when the boys come running into the gym she’s already moving to meet them.
Charles follows behind with Jimmy, taking in the scene with sharp eyes—me and Cal on the mat, sweating and breathing hard, Silas standing nearby, Parker in workout gear looking like she just went several rounds.
His eyebrows rise. Then he starts to slow clap, a grin spreading across his face.
“Well, well. Looks like my sister’s still got it.”
The boys are cheering, jumping up and down. “Did you beat them, Mom? Did you win?”
Parker drops to her knees, pulling Noah and Liam into her arms.
“What did I tell you about fighting?” she asks, pressing kisses to both their heads.
“It’s only okay if someone’s being mean or if you’re protecting someone,” Liam recites dutifully.
“And you gotta use your words first,” Noah adds.
“That’s right.” Parker hugs them tighter, and over their heads I can see the deliberate contrast she’s making. These are her boys. Her priority. Her reason for everything.
And we almost fucked it up by not trusting her.
“Were Uncle Cal and Uncle Jace being mean?” Jimmy asks, looking between us with the kind of gleeful suspicion only children can manage.
“We were just sparring,” Parker says smoothly, releasing the boys and standing. “Practicing. Like you’re about to do with Uncle Charles and Uncle Silas.”
“Can we hit Uncle Silas?” Liam asks hopefully.
Silas snorts. “You can try, little man.”
Charles is still watching us with that knowing grin, clearly enjoying whatever dynamic he’s walked into even if he doesn’t understand it. “Come on, boys. Let’s get you warmed up while these three recover from whatever beating Parker just gave them.”
Parker helps the boys with their hand wraps—a practiced motion that speaks to how many times she’s done this. When they’re ready and running toward Silas with Jimmy, she straightens.
And looks over her shoulder at us.
The message in her eyes is clear: We’re not done. This conversation isn’t over. You have a lot to prove.
Then she walks out of the gym, her bare feet silent on the floor, her ponytail swaying with each step. Three sample tubes tucked against her heart.
The door closes behind her.
“So,” Charles says cheerfully, completely oblivious to the tension. “Want to tell me what that was about?”
“Training,” I say, my voice rough.
“Right.” Charles doesn’t believe it for a second, but he doesn’t push. Instead he turns to the boys. “Okay, who wants to learn how to throw a proper punch?”
The boys cheer, and Silas moves to help Charles position them correctly.
And Cal and I stay on the mat, bruised and exhausted and forced to confront the fact that we almost lost everything because we chose doubt over trust.
“We really fucked up,” Cal says quietly.
“Yeah,” I agree, watching Liam try to mimic Silas’s stance while Noah demands to know why his feet have to be “so far apart.” “We really did.”
The gala is in two days. Parker will be on Ryan Matthews’s arm, wearing a gown we haven’t seen, playing the role Charles needs her to play.
And somewhere, those three sample tubes will be processed. Results will come back. And Parker will decide—on her timeline, in her way—when and how to share them with us.
If she shares them at all.
She’s taken control of the one thing we were investigating behind her back. Made it hers. And we have no choice but to wait and trust that she’ll tell us when she’s ready.
The irony isn’t lost on me.
“We do better,” I say finally. “Starting now. No more investigations. No more doubt. We ask her. Directly. Every time.”
“Agreed,” Cal says.
From across the gym, Silas looks over at us, his expression saying everything he doesn’t need to put into words: I fucking told you so.
He did. And we should have listened.
Noah lands a punch on the bag that makes it swing slightly, and his face lights up with pride. “Did you see that, Mom—” He stops, realizing Parker’s gone. His face falls slightly.
“She’ll be back,” Charles assures him. “Your mom just had some things to take care of.”
Like getting our DNA processed. Like taking control of information we tried to get behind her back. Like proving she doesn’t need our permission to get the answers we all want.
I touch my ribs where I know bruises are already forming, testament to how thoroughly she just demolished us.
And I think about those sample tubes tucked against her skin, warm from her body heat, labeled in her handwriting.
J. C. S.
Our fate, literally held close to her heart.
Now we just have to prove we deserve to stay there.