Acheron had expected to spend the rest of the night staring at the ceiling, tossing and turning as fear gnawed at the edges of his thoughts. He had braced himself for hours of listening to every creak of the old house, his heart leaping at the faintest sound. Instead, to his surprise, after Mr Sauveterre's calm, steady voice had soothed him over the phone, he'd drifted off almost as soon as he set it down.
If his bedroom still had a lock, he would have turned it without hesitation, but his parents had removed the locks from both the bedroom doors and the bathrooms months ago. Back then, he hadn't minded, but now, the absence of that small metal latch left him feeling far too exposed.
Logically, he knew Hadeon wouldn't sneak past the security guards, slip into the house, and find his way to this room. But then again, he never thought Hadeon would take a large clipper to his collar and try to forcefully mark him either.
Who had he been dating all these years?
Hadeon, the boy he had once thought he loved, had become unrecognisable, or maybe he had simply stopped pretending.
Acheron reached toward the bedside table, fingers searching for his phone, still plugged into its charger. The early morning air nipped at his skin, making him pause as his fingertips grazed the device. Turning on the screen, his heart stuttered when he saw a notification waiting.
The fragile calm he'd built up through the night shattered instantly, replaced by the breathless, cold rush of panic. His hand hovered, uncertain. He stared at the glow of the screen for several seconds before finally unlocking it.
Just as quickly, the panic ebbed. The message wasn't from Hadeon. It was from Eamon.
Warmth spread through his chest, followed quickly by a pang of guilt. Guilt that he had managed to fall asleep somewhat peacefully while knowing Eamon was probably still carrying the weight of last night. He read the message twice, then a third time, as if its words could wrap themselves around him like a blanket.
Stretching his arms above his head, he sat up, blinking against the pale morning light spilling through the window. He thought about what he might do today. The unfinished painting from last night still sat on its easel across the room, angled toward the window. He could work on it… But the inspiration that had carried him into the early hours had slipped away.
Still, the idea of taking it down felt wrong.
That's its home now.
Sliding out from under the covers, he let his feet sink into the plush carpet beneath the bed. He reached for his slippers, his mother's voice echoing in his mind with all the past scoldings about "catching a cold through your toes" before making his way toward the door.
The familiar corridors were lined with framed photographs, the walls steeped in the kind of warm nostalgia only a childhood home could hold. As he reached the bottom of the stairs, he heard his parents' voices drifting out of the kitchen, the soft clink of mugs between sentences.
Breakfast was always at the table by the big bay window, one of those unshakable traditions, no matter how busy the family became.
His sibling had left last night, work calling them back. Ivo had been forcibly chased out by Oaklen after making dramatic claims about dropping everything to stay. Acheron knew his brother's real motives were only for access to unlimited home-cooked food and free laundry.
Now, with only his parents left, the big house felt emptier than it had in years. Acheron wondered, fleetingly, what Ivy would do when he left for university in a few months.
"Morning," he murmured, suppressing a yawn as he stepped into the kitchen.
His parents both turned, their surprise visible in the quick lift of their brows. Their hands were still clasped together on the table between them, a quiet, unspoken gesture that had always made their home feel warmer. Steam curled from their coffee mugs, freshly baked scones sat piled high on a platter, surrounded by open jars of jewel-toned jams. A bowl of whipped cream, thick and soft as clouds, rested in the centre of the table.
His mother didn't cook often, but when she did, it was always breakfast. Baking was her domain, and in Acheron's mind, she could have opened a bakery years ago. She was still young, still full of the kind of vibrant energy and more than enough passion to make it thrive.
"Morning, baby," Ivy's singsong voice floated across the kitchen. She shifted her chair slightly, making room for him to join them at the table. Her gaze softened as she looked him over, taking in the tangle of his uncombed hair and the faint, dusky smudges beneath his eyes.
He probably didn't sleep much, she thought.
Oaklen reached for one of the spare chairs and dragged it across the floor, the legs scraping harshly against the tiles. The sudden noise startled Acheron. His shoulders twitched before he quickly tried to mask it with a faint cough, his fingers curling at the hem of his nightshirt. Ivy caught the flinch but said nothing; she didn't want to prod at a wound that was still raw.
She could see him healing, piece by careful piece, but a selfish part of her wished she could have all of him back, the little boy from before everything had happened. Acheron had never been boisterous, but he'd always been watchful and attentive. He preferred to stand back and quietly take in the world, storing details like treasures.
Words had never been his main language; instead, he spoke through small, thoughtful gestures. A drawing slipped under her mug in the morning. Flowers plucked from a neighbour's garden. On rare days, he'd even share his most precious treats, though always with a tiny sigh.
He'd been clingy, too—absurdly so. He preferred to be carried everywhere, his small arms looped firmly around a neck or shoulder, as if walking himself were a cruel and unnecessary invention. By the time he turned two, his paediatrician had warned them that his walking and running were underdeveloped from all the carrying, and that they'd have to stop.
When they did, he simply adapted by climbing into his siblings' beds at night, curling himself into their sides like a kitten. Kai had been his favourite nest until leaving for Med school, after which Ivy had been forced to draw up a rotating chart to stop Acacia and Ivo from fighting over who got to share a bed with him. It had taken months to coax him into sleeping alone.
That all ended when he went away to boarding school. Calls and messages dwindled until they became rare enough to count on one hand. Oaklen and Ivy had to plead with him to visit during weekends or holidays. Even when Ivo checked in, Acheron barely acknowledged him. He had slipped further away, each return visit marked by a new piercing, a little more armour, and a little less of the boy they remembered.
He no longer clung to them. No longer gave them gifts and no longer wanted to share a bed.
This weekend had been different. She'd caught glimpses of him again, barefoot in the garden, paint smudged on his cheek and humming to himself as he worked. Yet that almost got destroyed the very next night. Ivy shook her head, trying to rid herself of melancholy thoughts.
Acheron slid into the chair Oaklen had pulled out for him. His hands tugged idly at the bottom of his nightshirt, stretching the fabric over his knees. Then, almost without realising, he reached for a scone and quickly ducked his head and bit into it, cheeks puffed slightly as he chewed, a crumb clinging to the corner of his mouth. Without a word, he reached for the jam jar, using the smallest spoon possible, as though afraid he might take too much.
For Ivy, it was the tiniest glimpse of that same little boy who was quiet, gentle, and far softer than he wanted anyone to know.
"I should probably tell you… Hadeon messaged me last night." Acheron's voice was soft, almost swallowed by the quiet clinking of cutlery at the table. He hadn't been sure how to bring it up; there was no easy way.
"What!" Oaklen's chair screeched against the floor as he shot upright. Ivy's hand froze mid-motion, the knife she had been using to spread jam sliding off the half-scone and clattering against the plate.
The sharp noise jolted through Acheron like an electric spark. His shoulders jumped, and he gave a tiny, almost imperceptible flinch. It wasn't much, but it was enough for Ivy's heart to twist. His fingers immediately sought the hem of his oversized nightshirt, bunching and rolling the fabric between his fingertips.
"Why didn't you tell us immediately?" Ivy's voice cracked into a higher pitch, her outrage spilling over. "We should call the cops; he'd better not try to get near you again." Her jaw tightened. The Blackwells had no shame.
Her mind burned with memory of the first meeting with their lawyers, when one of them dared to suggest Hadeon should "fully mark" Acheron, dismissing the whole case as a lovers' quarrel. When that failed, they'd sent in a pack of hulking Alphas who looked like they'd stepped straight out of a back-alley gang, cornering her alone and suggesting she take the payout and "be done with it." She could still recall the smell of their pheromones, heavy with unspoken threats. If intimidation hadn't worked on her… would they turn to her son?
"I messaged Eamon already," Acheron said, his tone deliberately casual, though his thumb rubbed small circles into the soft cotton of his shirt, suppressing the light shake in his hands.
His gaze drifted toward the plate of scones, eyes narrowing slightly in consideration, like he was weighing the fate of the entire basket. He reached out, hovering his fingers over one, then switched to another, then back again until Ivy gently pushed the nearest one toward him.
"You have?" she asked, surprise momentarily cutting through her anger. She hadn't expected him to act on his own.
"Yeah. As soon as I got it." He reached for another scone, pulling it close and tearing a small piece from the edge instead of biting straight into it. "Mr Sauveterre said he would handle it when we spoke."
Oaklen's brow furrowed. "You spoke… on the phone? He called you?"
"Yes," Acheron replied between bites, his lips brushing crumbs from his fingertips. "I asked him to."
The nonchalance in his voice might have convinced someone who didn't know him, but Ivy noticed the faintest curl at the corner of his mouth when he said it.
Oaklen and Ivy exchanged a quick glance; his eyebrow lifted in silent question, her shoulders rising in a quiet shrug. Whatever unspoken conversation passed between them, neither pushed further. The rest of the morning drifted by in gentle conversation and the soft clinking of cutlery. The sun slid lazily through the kitchen's windows, warming the table.
It was peaceful until the deep rumble of an engine pulled into the driveway. A moment later, a sharp, impatient honk split the air. The sound vibrated through the walls, threading through the plush carpets, weaving past the framed family photos, and finally reaching Acheron's ears like a punch.
In an instant, the fragile composure he'd been holding together since breakfast crumbled. He shot up so fast his chair scraped against the tiles with a screech before tipping and thudding onto the floor. His breath hitched, shoulders rising and falling too quickly, and tiny beads of sweat prickled along his hairline. His fingers twitched at his sides, curling inwards as though he needed to grab hold of something solid.
"Erie!" Oaklen's voice was sharp with concern as he rounded the table. He reached out instinctively, but the moment his hand grazed Acheron's shoulder, the boy flinched, fear flashing in his eyes.
"S-Sorry," Acheron stammered, his voice small. His hands immediately found the hem of his sleeve, twisting the fabric in tight little spirals as if he could hide the tremor in his fingers. "I guess I'm still a little… jumpy."
He tried for a light laugh, but it came out thin. That phantom sensation was there again, the skin between his shoulder blades prickling, as if that cold breath was against the back of his neck, the feeling of eyes watching him with hunger.
"I'm okay, I promise." The words were too quick, the tiny smile too forced, but he did them anyway. Slowly, he righted his chair and sat again. He picked up a piece of scone, nibbling at it in small, careful bites, like the rhythm of eating might steady him. And, strangely, it helped. Bite by bite, his shoulders began to lower, the heat creeping back into his cheeks.
Oaklen studied him for a long moment before glancing at Ivy. She gave a small nod of assurance. When Oaklen finally left for work, Ivy lingered, quietly finishing her tea while Acheron worked on the last of his breakfast.
When he pushed his plate away, she tilted her head. "What are your plans for today ?"
He perked a little, a hint of life slipping into his tone. "Painting."
"Mm-hm." Her lips curved faintly. "That's good. But you should start getting ready for university too. Have you bought all your textbooks and art supplies for the semester?"
Acheron's mouth twisted. "I'll go later today."
"Would you like to go together?"
He shook his head, tucking a strand of hair behind his ear. "No, I'm okay."
He rose and carried his dishes to the dishwasher, placing them inside with quiet care, lining them up neatly, like the small order might give him some control back. Then, without another word, he padded out of the kitchen. Heading towards the storage room.