“They’re mine,” the boy hissed. “You don’t get to take them from me. If Beverly doesn’t want me back, fine—she can run. But the baby? My mother’s got the money, lawyers. She will win.”
Birdy’s blood went ice cold. The baby whimpered again, pressing her damp cheek to Birdy’s collarbone. She looked at Paul, who stood between them all like a wall.
For once, Birdy didn’t argue. Because the only thing more terrifying than the boy who made threats was the man standing between them.
Paul didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t puff up his chest or step closer to Zeke. He just looked at the boy and said, low and even, “You need to go. Now.”
Zeke’s jaw twitched. The corner of his mouth pulled into a sneer. He turned to Beverly and snapped his fingers. “Let’s go.”
Beverly flinched. That tiny, involuntary recoil punched through Birdy’s chest like a fist. Without thinking, Beverly moved—not toward Zeke, but toward Birdy. She dove closer into Birdy's side, closing the distance like she was seeking shelter.
Birdy shifted the baby onto her hip and stepped forward, blocking Zeke’s line of sight. Their eyes met. Birdy didn’t look away. Her gaze locked on his, sharp as glass, cold as law. It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t showy. But it was deadly clear.
Zeke faltered. His bravado cracked. It was just a hair. But that was enough to show the boy underneath the threat, the one who’d never had anyone glare back with more power than his punch.
He looked at the baby in Birdy’s arms. Then at Paul, who hadn’t moved but somehow seemed larger now—anchored, immovable. And finally, Zeke looked at Beverly, who stood quiet and trembling but not alone. He swore under his breath and turned on his heel, storming out the front door without another word. The screen door slammed behind him.
Paul exhaled slowly, as though grounding himself in the quiet after the storm. His muscles were still coiled, like adrenaline was pulsing through his veins. But his demeanor shifted the moment his eyes landed on Beverly.
She stood frozen, her shoulders rigid, eyes locked on the door like she was waiting for it to fly back open. Like Zeke might come charging through again and this time wouldn’t stop at words.
“Did he hurt you?” Paul asked.
Beverly’s gaze dropped to the floor. She didn’t speak. Her fingers curled tightly around the hem of her coat, knuckles white with the effort. That silence was answer enough for both Paul and Birdy.
“Hey.” Paul knelt slightly to meet her eye level. “You don’t have to protect him anymore. I’ll protect you. Both of you.”
Beverly’s lower lip trembled. Her chin dipped in the smallest of nods.
Birdy stood there, cradling the baby against her shoulder, one hand rubbing small, soothing circles on the infant’s back. But her eyes were on him. He didn’t say a word to her. He didn’t need to.
Because Birdy felt it. The quiet vow in his gaze. The promise humming between them louder than any declaration.
He’d protect Beverly. He’d protect the baby. But he’d protect her, too.
CHAPTERSIXTEEN
Paul sat stiffly in a metal-framed chair beside Birdy. Her hands rested on the table, fingers laced tightly like they were the only thing keeping her from unraveling.
He wanted to reach out. To comfort her. To connect to her. To unlace those fingers one by one and slide his own between them. To give her something steady to hold on to that wasn’t rage or control or the pressure of being the one everyone else leaned on.
But he didn’t move. Because he’d broken something. Again.
He shouldn't have brought Zeke to the house. Not on a hunch. He should have vetted the young man first.
Across from them, his supervisor—Marla Jensen, straight-backed and razor-voiced—was tapping her pen against a file folder with the kind of rhythm that made his pulse climb.
“As it stands, Zeke’s mother has filed for emergency custody. She has legal resources. Money. Connections. And Beverly…” Marla looked at the file like it might somehow soften. “Beverly’s underage. She’s couch-surfing. No guardianship, no consistent schooling, no viable plan. The court will see her as unstable. The baby will be placed in a temporary foster home by the end of the week. Possibly with Zeke’s family, depending on the judge.”
Paul’s throat burned. It was all falling apart. He’d promised Beverly safety. He’d looked her in the eye and told her she was protected. And now it was going to end in a courtroom where people like Zeke’s mother always came out ahead.
“There has to be another option,” Birdy said, pulling a notepad from her bag. “A motion for temporary guardianship? I can file it today. Or what if we requested an emergency hearing based on the signs of emotional abuse? There’s precedent?—”
She was in motion now. Her fingers no longer clenched together. They moved through the air, sharp and fluid, like she was flipping through legal codes in her head or rifling through a deck of cards.
Paul sat back, watching her work. She was back in a tailored business suit. Her hair was once more in that tight, no-nonsense bun. As he watched her, the sting of failure slowly dissolved into something else.
This was the woman he’d written to in the dark, anonymous hours of a snowstorm. This was the woman he debated over text messages. This was the fire. And the grace. And the clarity. And he was falling again.
