A half-Vakutan child.
I lean against the wall and close my eyes.
I can still see him.
Small hand in her shirt.
Scales like burnished copper.
Those eyes.
Gods.
When I push off the wall again, I know two things with absolute clarity.
One: Tilda is hiding something that can blow my life apart.
Two: I am not going to be able to think about anything else until I know if that boy is my son.
CHAPTER 13
TILDA
Ido not look back.
That rule forms in my head with the clarity of survival instinct. If I turn around—if I see Bron still standing there with that stunned, calculating expression spreading across his face—then everything I have spent the last couple of years constructing will begin to fracture. Secrets are fragile things, and once someone starts pulling at the edges, they rarely survive the day intact.
So I keep walking.
The hallway outside the visitation commons carries the soft domestic scent of the family wing—warm plastic toys, citrus disinfectant, and the faint sweetness of fruit snacks crushed into upholstery. The lighting here is gentler than the arena corridors, a calmer amber glow that softens the metal walls and makes the space feel almost peaceful. Somewhere farther down the hall a toddler laughs with bright, ringing delight, the sound bouncing off the walls like a tiny bell.
Jesse shifts against my hip.
“Mama?”
His voice is small but certain. I press a kiss against the top of his head, breathing in the scent of bath soap and warm skin.
“I know, baby,” I murmur.
He leans back just enough to peer at my face, golden eyes narrowing in suspicion. Jesse has always been observant in that quiet, unsettling way children sometimes are—like he’s watching the adults around him and filing away conclusions none of us expect him to make yet.
“Who dat?” he asks.
My stomach tightens immediately.
Children notice everything.
“Nobody,” I answer softly.
Jesse studies my expression with grave concentration. After a moment he pats my cheek, the gesture gentle and oddly comforting, as if he has decided I am the one who needs reassurance.
“Okay,” he says.
I step into the private family suite and let the door seal behind us with a quiet hiss.
For a moment I simply stand there, trying to steady my breathing. The room smells like clean laundry, warm blankets, and the faint rubbery scent of the dinosaur toy Jesse has been chewing on for three days. My pulse pounds so loudly in my ears that the silence of the room feels almost oppressive.
Bron saw him.
