Page 46 of Bound By Blood and Lies

“Son, how can I help?”

I lean back against the marble counter, my mobile pressed to my ear as I stare out across the quiet kitchen.

“Where are you?” I ask.

“Ah, just in London. Some business things. Can I help?”

There’s a faint rustling sound on the other end of the line, as if he’s moving through a room or shifting something out of the way whilst he listens. My fingers tap lightly against the marble counter as I watch the late afternoon light stretch across the garden outside. Dad has always been a busy man. Even when I was a kid it was normal for him to answer calls between meetings, or to step out of rooms mid-conversation because something needed his attention. The work never really stops in this family, and it never bothered me. If anything, it was something I admired growing up.

“Yeah, all good here. Just wanted to let you know the package you dropped off was very useful.”

“Ah, that is good to hear. Is that all, son?”

“No,” I sigh and swipe my hand down my face. “Look, I need permission to move in on Ackworth.”

I can almost picture him standing somewhere expensive and quiet with that same calm expression he always wears. Dad has always been good at separating the two sides of his life, keeping the weight of the organisation from bleeding too far into the family home. It can’t have been easy balancing both but growing up he never made it feel like a burden. The only time that line ever really blurred was with Quinn. Even then I sometimes wonder if it would have mattered as much if I hadn’t already been drawn so completely toward Fae. By the time Dad started pushing me in Quinn’s direction, it was already too late. Whatever he thought was best for the family had collided with something I wasn’t willing to compromise on, and the more he pushed, the more the cracks started to show. Despite everything, it still feels good to be working together again.

“Is it him?” he asks.

“Yes.”

He sighs softly and I hear movement. A door closes, followed by the unmistakable metallic click of a gun safety being pushed back into place. The sound makes me pause. Curiosity flickers through me, but I don’t question it. Dad has always been cautious about where he takes certain calls, especially when they involve the organisation. If he’s stepped somewhere more private to finish the conversation, I’m sure there’s a reason for it.

“Then you have it,” he finally says. “I’ll talk to the other founders and the council.”

Relief loosens deep in my chest as my shoulders drop and the tension bleeds out of them. Doing things properly has always mattered in this family and hearing the approval from Dad gives me the boost to keep going. And now… we can move. Now the waiting stops. We’re finally close enough that the next step actually means something, and for the first time in weeks the path ahead feels clear.

Felix is going to want to hear this the moment I hang up.

“Thanks, Dad.”

“Of course, son...”

“Yes?”

“I’m proud of you.”

The line clicks dead.

I stay exactly where I am, the phone still in my hand as I stare out through the tall glass windows at the gardens stretching out behind the house. Early evening light spills across the lawn, catching the tops of the hedges and the old oak tree that’s been there longer than any of us, the branches glow softly where the sun is beginning to dip behind them. It’s peaceful in that quiet, golden way that makes the house seem to glow.

The light makes me think of Fae, the way it used to catch in her hair when we walked across campus, turning the lighter strands almost copper. The memory hits me in the chest and my grip tightens around the phone as the calm of the garden in front of me clashes violently with the reality that she’s still out there somewhere.

God knows where.

I still have no idea where she is, whether she’s safe or cold or hurt or still fighting the way I know she would be. But I do know one thing…

Fisher.

If that man has laid a single finger on her, I swear to God there won’t be enough left of him to bury. I force the thought down before it spirals any further. Anger won’t help her. Not yet. What she needs is for me to stay focused, to follow the path we’ve finally managed to carve out of the chaos of the last few weeks.

The kitchen behind me shifts, and I don’t bother turning around. I already know who it is. I hear the soft tempo of her footsteps crossing the tiles and the faint scent of fresh linen drifting through the room; it is clean and familiar in a way that makes the whole house feel warmer.

“Roman?” Mum says softly.

I push away from the counter and turn as she steps fully into the kitchen, wiping her hands on the apron tied loosely around her waist. The smell of vanilla and warm sugar drifts in with her, and it takes about half a second to realise she’s baking again. At this point I’m fairly certain the woman deals with stress by feeding people. She smiles the moment she sees me and the pain in my chest loosens automatically, the way it always has around her. My mum has that effect on people. There’s a warmth about her that softens whatever room she walks into, the kind of quiet kindness that settles over people without them even realising it. Most of the men in my life carry a certain amount of damage from the world we live in; Felix, Atlas, Riggs, all of us have been shaped by the darker corners of it but somehow her light still reaches them anyway. She never tries to push or pry; she just exists and the brightness of it seems to seep into the cracks people try so hard to hide. She’s the sort of person who turns a house into a home simply by being in it.

“Hey,” I say, stepping closer.