"We'll make it clean," I say, watching her face. "No evidence, no questions."
"I don't care about that," she whispers. "I just want Charlie to grow up feeling safe."
I pull her closer, pressing a kiss to her forehead. "She will. I promise."
"And both of you," Matthew adds, standing beside us. "You'll be safe."
Tears glisten in Morgan's eyes. "I didn't want this for you. For either of you."
"It's already done," I say softly. "The moment Harris threatened you, the moment he took Charlie, he made his choice."
"And we've made ours," Matthew finishes.
Morgan wipes at her eyes. "She's sleeping so peacefully right now. Like she hasn't in a long time."
"Let's keep it that way," I say, leading her back toward the bedroom. "We'll figure out the details tomorrow."
In the hallway, I pause with my hand on the doorknob. Through the crack, I see Charlie curled in the center of the bed, breaths even and deep.
"Thank you," Morgan whispers, fingers intertwining with mine. "For understanding."
I look down at her, the woman who waited six years for me to come home, who built a life while I was away, who took a broken child into her heart without hesitation.
"There's nothing to understand," I say. "She's family now."
As we settle around Charlie, forming a silent perimeter with Matthew at the foot of the bed, I watch the moonlight on her face. Even in sleep, there's a faint line of tension between her brows, a shadow of the fear I'd been trained to inflict. Now I've sworn to erase it.
Sleep will be hard tonight with Harris still out there. But when Charlie stirs, her small hand finding Morgan's again, I know one thing with absolute certainty: Harris's days are numbered.
chapter eight
Morgan
The next morning I'm woken not by crying or nightmares, but by a small, warm finger poking tentatively at my cheek.
"Ms. Morgan? Are you awake?"
I blink, disoriented for a moment as early morning light floods the room. Charlie's face hovers inches from mine, her blue eyes wide and curious.
"I'm awake," I whisper, careful not to disturb Trenton's arm still draped protectively over us. "Good morning, Charlie."
"Is it breakfast time?" she asks, her voice small but steady. "I'm hungry."
My heart swells at that simple question. After everything she's been through, she's still brave enough to ask for what she needs.
"Of course it is," I say, easing out from under Trenton's arm. "Let's see what we can find."
Charlie slips from the bed with surprising grace, standing barefoot in my oversized T-shirt that hangs to her knees. She looks so small, so fragile in the morning light, and I feel that fierce protectiveness rise again.
We pad quietly to the kitchen, Charlie's small hand finding mine as we navigate the hallway. The house feels different now, fuller somehow with her presence in it.
"What do you usually have for breakfast?" I ask, opening the refrigerator.
Charlie's brow furrows in thought. "Sometimes cereal. Or toast. Daddy doesn't like cooking."
I suppress a flinch at the mention of Evan and focus on the options. "How about pancakes? I make really good ones."
Her face brightens. "With chocolate chips?"
