Page 102 of Yours on the Canvas

“It’s perfect,” Jack whispers, his voice thick with emotion. He carefully moves towards me, forcing me to move over, and he pulls back the blanket, patting the now empty space beside him.

Hale doesn’t hesitate. He kicks off his boots and climbs right up onto the wide bed beside us, carefully sliding under the blanket. He places an arm gently over Jack’s chest, entirely mindful of his healing ribs, while I shift closer, resting my forehead gently against Jack’s temple. Laying my arm softly over Jack and placing my hand on Hale’s back, I wrap us all in my hold.

“I’ll leave you three to it.” Eli laughs quietly as he leaves me with my family.

Hale moves carefully closer to Jack, who tightens his arm around Hales small frame. He looks at me, a small smile on his lips.

“I’m home.”

I smile, “Yeah, baby. You’re home.”

“Love you, Jax” Hale murmurs softly, pressing a kiss to Jack’s hair.

“Yeah, Love you too, Hale,” Jack whispers back, his voice thick with emotion, his hand reaching across his chest to rest on my forearm, and we lay there together in the quiet sanctuary of the hospital room; broken, bruised, and forever altered, but entirely unbroken as a family.

The monsters who had tried to grind him into dust are rotting in the dirt back in Seattle, Mack and Callan cleaning up our visit, and my dove is now finally, finally safe in the light.

29

Jack

I’ve been back from Nanaimo now for a full two months. My physical body is slowly, stubbornly healing, the daily medical reports are clean, the ribs are knitting back together, and the doctors are cautiously pleased with how I’m recovering.

Unfortunately, my mind is still completely fucked.

When we had first arrived home, stepping through the front doors of Silas’s house, it felt like learning how to breathe underwater. Everything is too big, too loud, too claustrophobic. Every floorboard that creaks underfoot instantly sounds like heavy boots coming down those basement stairs in Seattle. Every shadow in the hallway tricks my eyes, dragging me backward into the dark.

Because of it, I track Silas’s movements with a frantic, desperate obsession. I find my fingers constantly curling into the heavy fabric of his shirt, clutching at him, refusing to let him go for even a second.

I can’t let him out of my sight. If I turn around in the kitchen or the living room and he isn’t right there, my brain panics, heading straight back to the cage.

Silas feels the razor-thin tension humming under my skin. He never pulls away, or gets frustrated. He just stops whatever he’s doing, wraps his massive arms tight around my waist, and holds me through the shakes until the ghosts finally retreat.

As I lay next to Silas on the couch, my head in his lap I watch him doom scroll on his phone, and I’m about to give him shit for it, when a sharp knock echoes against the front door.

My whole body violently flinches, a sudden jolt of ice flooding my veins, but Silas quickly places a hand on my head, “It’s okay, baby,” he murmurs, showing me his phone.

I glance at the screen, seeing the live feed from the door camera: a woman standing on the porch holding a thick manila folder. I recognise her instantly, a social worker from the local family services division, and I’m guessing she’s here to talk about Hale.

He quickly presses a kiss to my knuckles, “Hop up.”

I move, sitting up and I watch as Silas lets her in, while I sit rigid on the couch, only half-listening as she explains the situation.

Social Services have spent months searching for any extended family of Hale’s, but have come up completely empty. He is officially classified as a minor without immediate family custody.

She speaks carefully, measuring every word, clearly trying to soften the blow.

“I would like to suggest that Hale be placed into the local foster system while things get sorted out,” she says smoothly.

Her eyes flick nervously toward me, and I know in that exact second that she knows what happened to me. She knows I am broken goods, a liability, someone who can’t possibly look after a child.

Panic claws at my throat, and I start to stand, ready to fight tooth and nail, to scream that Hale isn’t going anywhere, that he’s ours. But before my words can even form in my mouth, Silas moves.

He steps closer to her, using his height and his sheer, terrifying aura of authority to back her into a corner.

“No,” Silas says. His voice is flat, absolute, and carries a quiet, lethal weight that leaves zero room for debate. He looks the social worker dead in the eye. “He doesn’t go anywhere. He stays here. We’re keeping him.”

“Mr. Thorne, legally, emergency placement requires…” she starts, her professional facade cracking.