Eamon stood in front of the heavy mahogany door for a moment longer than necessary before knocking twice and letting himself in. The scent of sharp cedar and old paper clung to the walls of the private office, a contrast to the modern minimalism of his own space.

Alessia Sauveterre, Eamon's Female Alpha Father, sat behind her desk, reading glasses perched on the bridge of her nose as she annotated a legal brief in scarlet ink. Her white shirt was crisp, and her hair was swept into a sleek, ageless bun. She glanced up only once, but the flick of her eyes was enough to pin him.

“You’re three minutes late,” she said coolly.

“I’ve had a full day,” Eamon replied, closing the door behind him. “Even the city’s corruption doesn’t run on schedule.”

Alessia smirked faintly, then gestured to the chair across from her. “Sit. Talk.”

He sat, crossed one ankle over his knee and leaned forward, resting his forearms on the desk. “I’ll keep it brief. I’ve got five active cases: three commercial, one political, Messner’s firm is pushing a bad zoning bill, and the last one that’s probably going to ruin my sleep for the next year.”

“Let me guess,” she murmured. “The rape case. Desrosiers.”

Of course, she knew. Alessia always knows.

Eamon nodded once. “It’s going to be a bloodbath. The kid’s glands were damaged, and the collar didn't hold, but it was able to barely stop him from being marked. He’s not speaking much yet, but the family is prepared to back him. The problem is that the Blackwells are circling. I suspect they’ve already tried to delay the lab’s report, maybe even started soft intimidation.”

Alessia's pen paused mid-note. Her eyes narrowed slightly. “Do you have proof?”

“Not yet. But I will. Their claws are in deeper than we thought. I want you to keep your ears open. And your allies are on edge. If they’re pulling strings, they’ll come for anyone who threatens to unravel the narrative.”

She studied him in silence for a beat longer than was comfortable. “You’re in dangerous territory, Eamon. They play ugly, and the matter of fact is you’re still... learning.”

“I’m not naive,” he said tightly. “And I didn’t bring this case to stroke my ego. I brought it because no one else would touch it.”

Alessia set her pen down, not quite believing him. “You’ve always had fire. I admire that, but don’t let your fury burn your judgment. If you misstep, they’ll not only ruin the boy, they’ll take a swing at you, and by extension—”

“The firm. I know.”

“You should also consider your mother, you know, he isn't meant for our world”, she added, her voice softening just slightly. “If the Blackwells come for you, they won’t spare the people you love.”

That pulled him back. His jaw tightened.

Eamon could only nod. His mother had a weak heart and easily got unsettled. 

Alessia's eyes softened. “You may not always agree with me, but I raised you to fight battles that mattered. If this one matters to you, then go in swinging. But don’t do it without backup and keep me in the loop.”

“I always do.”

A long moment of silence passed between them. It was weighty and layered with unspoken history and tension, but beneath it, a current of mutual trust.

Alessia leaned back in her chair and picked up her pen again. “Very well. Keep digging. And if the Blackwells breathe in our direction, I want to know the second they do.”

Eamon stood, smoothing the sleeves of his shirt. “They’re already breathing. I just intend to make sure they choke.”

***   

Before Acheron realised it, the weekend had arrived, and this one was special. All of his older siblings were coming home for a visit.

That morning, he decided to sit outside in the garden, hoping to enjoy the lingering warmth before winter crept in. A sudden urge to paint had overtaken him. This time, he reached for acrylics, not typically his first choice, as he’d always preferred oil, but most of his supplies were still packed in boxes from the boarding house. And he wasn’t ready to open those yet. He couldn’t bear the chance of uncovering something Hadeon had gifted him.

He set up a medium-sized easel and a small canvas between patches of flowers. He had thought about sitting directly on the ground to paint, but the grass was brittle, hardened by the coming cold. It would only poke at him and make him itchy. Instead, he pulled over a garden chair, and next to it a small table where he neatly arranged his brushes and tubes of paint.

Lately, his work had been mostly monochromatic, black-heavy with stark light tones and shadowed edges, but today he wanted to push himself. His grasp of colour theory was strong, even if the recent trauma had left his art raw and stripped down. Today, he aimed to play with colour and shading again, starting small.

His subject was a tall, cracked Victorian-style vase surrounded by blooming pink and red roses. He began the piece in grey scale, layering in shadows and depth before gently introducing bursts of vibrant colour into the rose petals just enough to hint at life amidst the quiet.

With each brush stroke, memory returned to his fingers. The motions felt natural, even if his technique was still recovering. He didn’t chase perfection; it was enough that he was painting again.

While Acheron lost himself in the colour-streaked world he was building, his older brother Kai arrived with his husband, Camlo.

They had met years ago during university, on the day Kai had finished an impossibly brutal round of medical exams. Exhausted and dazed, he’d stumbled into a nearby café, and behind the counter stood a barista, handsome and focused, swirling hearts and leaves into cappuccino foam like it was second nature.

From that day forward, Kai returned nearly every day, sometimes pretending to study just to sneak glances. It took him two years to even flirt. In the end, it was Camlo who asked him out, laughing brightly as he did. He’d noticed Kai’s shy admiration from the very beginning and had simply run out of patience.

They’d marked each other soon after. Kai went on to land a position at a prestigious hospital, and Camlo finally opened his dream bakery.

"Mom, we’re here!" Camlo called as he entered the house, carrying a box of still-warm baked goods. Ivy opened the back door from the kitchen and motioned towards the garden.

Acheron sat nestled between beds of late-autumn flowers, streaks of paint smeared across his cheek and temple. His hair was tied back loosely, and he wore an old shirt stained with a history of colours.

To strangers, he still appeared closed off, detached or stoic even, but to those who knew him like his family, the signs were clear. His posture was looser. The dullness in his eyes had lessened, and a small spark glimmered beneath his lashes.

Kai watched his youngest brother closely, one arm resting around Camlo’s waist. For the first time in weeks, something like hope bloomed in his chest.

He had worried himself sick over Eron’s depression. He wasn’t a psychologist, but he had seen enough victims spiral, driven to harm or to silence when justice wasn’t swift enough, or healing too far out of reach.

He had feared that Eron might follow the same path, but here he was. Painting again.

And it meant everything.