Chapter 34
Chapter Thirty-Four
Summer
The shrill ringing of my phone shattered the peaceful cocoon of warmth and safety I had woken up to.
For a moment, I had let myself exist in the illusion—wrapped in tangled sheets, Malcolm’s body pressed against mine, his breath slow and even against my neck.
His arm draped over my waist, holding me close like I belonged there.
Like this was something we did. Like I hadn’t spent the last decade trying to keep him out.
But that moment was gone now, ripped away the second I saw Carrie’s name flashing across the screen.
My stomach plummeted, my fingers tightening around the phone as dread settled deep in my bones.
I sat up too fast, the sudden movement causing Malcolm’s arm to slip from around me, his warmth vanishing too quickly.
I barely registered his groggy shift behind me, the low rumble of a confused hum coming from his throat.
My heart pounded as I swiped to answer the call, already knowing this wasn’t good.
"Carrie?" My voice came out breathless, raw.
"Summer, he’s here."
Everything inside me went cold. My breath stalled, my stomach turned, and my grip on the phone went white-knuckled.
"What?" My voice cracked as I threw the sheets off, my body already moving before my brain had even processed her words.
"Peter Hale. And his father. They’re at the foster home right now. They’re pushing the adoption through."
No. No, no, no.
"They can’t do that," I snapped, fumbling with the zipper on my jeans, my hands shaking too badly to get it up on the first try. "You told me we had time."
"They pulled strings," Carrie said, frustration bleeding through every word. "His father is using every connection he has. I don’t know how, but they’re making it happen. They want Jake today, Summer."
Today.
I couldn’t breathe. My chest squeezed, my throat closing up around the sheer panic taking hold. I yanked a hoodie over my head, my movements jerky, rushed, unfocused.
"Where’s Jake?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.
"He’s terrified, Summer," Carrie admitted softly. "He keeps asking for you."
I didn’t need to hear anything else. I barely processed hanging up the phone, barely registered how frantically I was moving—until a strong hand wrapped around my wrist.
"Summer," Malcolm’s voice was thick with sleep, but the second I turned, the second he saw my face, his entire demeanor shifted. His brows pulled together, his jaw tightening, his grip firm but not forceful.
I froze, blinking at him, suddenly aware of how frantically I was moving. I hadn’t even thought about him, hadn’t even realized I was running out the door with him still in my bed.
He sat up fully, watching me with sharp, calculating eyes. "What’s going on?"
I yanked my wrist back, shaking my head. "Malcolm, I can’t do this right now."
His expression darkened, his jaw clenching as he swung his legs over the side of the bed. "Do what?"
I exhaled harshly, raking a hand through my already messy hair. "Talk. I have to go."
His eyes narrowed, scanning my face, my body language. He saw right through me—he always had. He stood slowly, his gaze locked onto mine with an intensity that made my stomach twist.
"You’re not going anywhere until you tell me what’s happening," he said, voice low, steady, unyielding.
I swallowed against the lump forming in my throat, my heart slamming against my ribs. "Jake. They’re taking him."
Malcolm went rigid.
The air in the room shifted, thickened.
His grip on me tightened for just a second before he suddenly released me, his entire demeanor going from calm to lethal in the span of a heartbeat.
He ran a hand down his face, exhaling sharply before shaking his head. "Get dressed."
I blinked. "What?"
"You’re not going alone," he said simply. His voice was smooth, controlled, but his eyes? His eyes were dark with something dangerous.
I opened my mouth, ready to argue, ready to tell him this wasn’t his problem, that he didn’t owe me anything.
But I didn’t.
Because I knew better.
And because a small, selfish part of me was relieved that I wouldn’t have to walk into this fight alone.
I didn’t say a word as he pulled on his clothes, his movements quick, efficient, focused.
This wasn’t up for debate.
We were in this now—together.
The drive to the foster home was tense, silent.
I sat in the passenger seat, my hands clenched into fists on my lap, my entire body coiled so tightly I thought I might snap.
Malcolm drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting on his thigh, his fingers tapping in slow, measured movements.
He hadn’t spoken since we left my apartment, and that silence was almost more terrifying than anything else.
He was furious.
Not in the way most people were. Not in the explosive, reckless way.
No, Malcolm Sinclair’s anger was quiet. Cold. Calculated.
And that?
That was infinitely more dangerous.
I glanced at him from the corner of my eye, taking in the tight line of his jaw, the subtle flex of his fingers around the wheel.
"You don’t have to do this," I said quietly.
He didn’t take his eyes off the road. "Yes, I do."
Something in my chest tightened.
I wanted to argue. Tell him this wasn’t his fight. That he didn’t owe me anything. That I could handle it.
But I didn’t.
Because I didn’t want to do this alone.
So I stayed quiet.
And I let him drive.
The closer we got, the worse my anxiety spiraled. My breath was coming too fast, my hands shaking, my pulse erratic. Malcolm must have noticed because suddenly, his hand was on my thigh.
A firm, steady weight.
Not teasing, not inappropriate.
Just grounding.
I swallowed hard, my eyes flicking to his, but he kept them on the road. His fingers tightened slightly, just enough to make my pulse slow, just enough to remind me that I wasn’t alone.
I exhaled shakily.
Malcolm’s voice was calm, steady. "We’ll fix this."
It wasn’t a question.
It wasn’t blind reassurance.
It was a promise.
And for the first time today, I actually believed it.
When we pulled up outside the foster home, my pulse spiked violently.
I barely let the car come to a stop before I was unbuckling my seatbelt, my fingers fumbling as I threw open the door.
Before I could move, Malcolm caught my wrist again, his grip gentle but firm.
I turned to him, startled by the sudden warmth of his touch, by the way his thumb barely brushed my pulse.
His voice was low, steady. "Take a breath."
I realized then that I had been holding it in.
I sucked in a shaky inhale, my chest tight, my heart hammering.
He watched me for a second longer, then let go.
I didn’t hesitate.
I pushed the door open and stepped out, my body vibrating with rage.
And Malcolm was right behind me.