ONE SEVENTY
As we made our way back toward the living room, I caught another glimpse of Isabella, standing rigid in the center of the room now, her fists clenched at her sides, her whole body trembling with the effort of holding herself together.
Adam watched her with wide, worried eyes, his small fingers twisting anxiously in the hem of his shirt.
The TV blared on.
Fake laughter. Fake joy.
A world so bright and stupid and wrong that it made something deep inside me want to scream.
We didn’t belong in that world anymore.
We belonged here, in the half-darkness, in the tension so thick you could taste it, where survival wasn’t guaranteed and kindness was a luxury no one could afford.
Dominic didn’t hesitate. He cut across the room like a man who had no patience left, his energy bubbling with anger.
“Remote,” he barked gruffly, his hand snapping out —
— and in that moment, it all happened so fast it was almost a blur: Dominic’s other hand, the one still gripping his gun tightly, lifted instinctively, just a twitch, just a reflex, but the barrel pointed directly toward Adam, just for a breath of a second, just long enough —
Adam froze. His small fingers curled tighter around the hem of his shirt, his body shrinking into itself. The remote trembled in his hands, slipping slightly from his sweaty grip. His eyes...
God, his eyes. They went red so fast, shimmering with tears he hadn’t yet let fall, his mouth trembling as if he didn’t know whether to scream or stay silent, trapped between terror and heartbreak.
My heart slammed into my ribs. A surge of pure, blinding panic flooded me.
Without thinking, without caring, I surged forward, stepping in front of Dominic so fast that I felt the heat of his body at my back.
“Dom,” I snapped, my voice loud and shaking all at once, “give him a damn second!”
I reached out and gently — so gently — pried the remote from Adam’s shaking hands. His fingers clung to it for half a second longer, trembling, before he let go, looking up at me like a kicked puppy desperate for reassurance.
“Hey,” I said softly, crouching slightly to meet his eyes.
“It’s okay. You’re okay. I’ve got it.”
Adam blinked rapidly, swallowing down a sob, and nodded — but his little chest heaved with the force of the emotions he was holding inside, and it broke something deep in my gut just to watch it.
I straightened, cradling the remote to my chest like it was something precious, before I turned sharply to face Dominic.
I thrust it out to him, my hand shaking, my face twisted into a fierce frown.
He took it, his fingers brushing mine, and I leaned closer, my heart hammering painfully against my ribs, my voice dropping to a harsh, desperate whisper meant only for him.
“He’s a kid,” I hissed through gritted teeth. “A kid we kidnapped yesterday, Dominic. He's ten. And even though he’s technically ours, he didn’t grow up with us. He doesn’t know us. All he knows is that he’s been yanked from everything familiar and dumped into this… this nightmare!"
Dominic’s hand tightened around the remote, his knuckles going white. I could see the tension locking up his entire body, the realization creeping over him like a cold, slow flood.
I didn’t stop. I couldn’t. Not when I could still feel Adam’s tiny hands trembling against mine.
"You can’t—" I swallowed hard, forcing the words past the lump in my throat. "You can’t point a gun at him. Not even by accident. You scare him like that again, Dom, and he’s not going to trust us. He’s not going to stay calm. He’s going to remember his foster parents, remember how he was stolen from them, and he’s going to panic. He’s going to shatter."
I stepped even closer, my chest almost brushing his, tilting my chin up to meet his cold green eyes.
"Get your shit together," I whispered fiercely. "Before you lose him."
The words hit him hard.
I saw it…
the way the air punched out of his lungs.
The way his mouth opened slightly, but no words came out.
The way a flicker of genuine guilt, sharp and ugly, crossed his face for the briefest second before he clamped it down, burying it under that hard, stone-cold mask he wore like armor.
He didn’t say anything.
Didn’t defend himself.
Didn’t lash back.
He just stood there, the remote heavy in his hand, staring at me like he was seeing me for the first time, like he was seeing Adam for the first time, not as a problem to be solved, not as a pawn in some bigger game, but as a child.
A scared, stolen child.
Our child.
I exhaled shakily, stepping back from him, letting the tension snap between us like a rubber band stretched too far.
My hands shook as I crossed them over my chest again, feeling suddenly cold all over.
Dominic finally tore his gaze from mine, turning slowly to look at Adam, to really look at him.
The little boy was sitting stiffly on the couch, his arms wrapped tightly around his knees, his face pale and blotchy, his eyes still glassy with unshed tears. And yet he hadn’t cried out. Hadn’t thrown a tantrum. Hadn’t demanded to go home. He was being so brave. Braver than any ten-year-old should ever have to be.
Dominic’s jaw flexed once, hard enough that I could see the ripple of muscle beneath his skin. For a moment, his whole body seemed frozen in place, like he was barely holding himself together by sheer will alone. A small, almost imperceptible twitch ticked at his cheek, a visible crack in the armor he wore so tightly wrapped around himself.
Then, slowly, excruciatingly carefully, as if any sudden movement might shatter the fragile control he was clawing to maintain — he lowered the gun to his side. The sharp click of the safety locking back into place was deafening in the silence. He tucked the weapon behind his waistband, movements stiff and robotic, like a man trying to walk a wire strung over an abyss. It was an apology. A silent, broken thing. But it was there.
He didn’t look at Adam.
He didn’t look at me.
He just moved toward the television, his back rigid in the shirt he had on, his hands trembling almost imperceptibly as he gripped the remote. Channel after channel flickered across the screen — bright colors, screaming voices, a world too loud and too alive for the tomb we were trapped in — until finally he landed on the news station. The anchorman's voice droned out across the room, low and serious, warning of tightened patrols, new checkpoints, the net closing in. But Dominic’s hand lingered on the remote longer than necessary, like he needed the weight of it to anchor himself to this moment, to keep from fracturing completely.
I watched him for a long, heartbeat-heavy moment, then tore my gaze away, the audio of the news anchor man muffled to my ears.
Behind the couch, Isabella continued her pacing and my eyes shifted to her figure. She had her fingers digging so deeply into the flesh of her arms I thought she might break the skin. Her breaths came fast and shallow, her chest heaving, her face blotchy with the effort of holding back the tide of emotions threatening to drown her.
Was she mad because Gael had been held captive or was she mad that I had returned to my house after being away for two years and as a fugitive.
I straightened, squaring my shoulders, forcing my voice to be steady even though my insides were trembling and my throat was closing up.
“Isabella,” I said, loud but not unkind. “Get Adam out of here. Take him to the kitchen. Make him some breakfast.”
Her head snapped up, her dark brown, tear-glossed eyes locking on mine. For a moment she looked like she might argue, like she might scream, or fall apart completely, but then she just nodded, a jerky, desperate motion, her bottom lip quivering.
She didn’t hesitate.
She crossed to the couch where Adam sat in three strides, dropping to her knees in front of Adam and gathering him into her arms with a gentleness that made my throat ache.
Adam clung to her immediately, his small hands knotting into her shirt, his face pressing tight against her neck.
Even as her arms wrapped around the boy, even as she murmured soft, broken reassurances into his hair, Isabella’s eyes brimmed with tears, fat, heavy droplets that clung stubbornly to her lashes but never fell.
She refused to cry.
Refused to let herself unravel.
Not here.
Not now.
She rose to her feet, Adam clutched tightly to her side, and started to move past me.
But I reached out, catching her gently by the elbow.
She stopped, stiff and brittle under my touch, and turned her face toward mine. Her eyes, raw, haunted, drowning met mine, and I dropped my voice to a whisper meant for her alone.
“Gael won’t get hurt,” I said, willing her to believe it. “Dominic’s just… keeping him in check. Until this blows over.”
For a second, a heartbeat suspended in glass, Isabella just stared at me. Then, slowly, her mouth opened.
Her whole body was trembling, so fiercely I could feel the vibrations through her arm.
“He wouldn’t hurt anyone,” she said.
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