Truly Theirs

Chapter 1

Michael’s POV

Ethan whimpered in his sleep, a soft, broken sound from the car seat behind him. Michael reached one hand back without taking his eyes off the road, his fingers brushing the edge of the blanket he’d tucked so carefully around the baby. “It’s okay, buddy,” he murmured, voice low, shaky with adrenaline and something dangerously close to awe. “Daddy’s got you now.” The night swallowed the road ahead, empty and silent, but Michael’s heart pounded like he was still inside the house, still prying his son from someone else’s life. He didn’t feel guilty. Not even close. He’d waited long enough.

The cabin crouched between the trees like it was trying not to be found. That’s what he liked about it. No street address, no cell service, and too far off the main road for patrols to bother. He cut the engine and sat still, listening not for baby sounds, but for the crunch of tires on gravel that weren’t his. Nothing. Just the wind brushing against the pines.

Michael got out and opened the back door slowly. Ethan was still asleep, cheeks flushed pink from the warm car ride, his little fists curled tight against his chest. Michael scooped him up carefully, holding him close like a secret. Inside, the air was stale and cold. He hadn’t been here in months. Dust clung to the windows like frost. He locked the door behind him, then checked it again. And again.

They’ll come. They’ll come for him.

His heart was racing. He told himself it was adrenaline. But it felt too much like fear.

He laid Ethan down on a pile of folded blankets by the woodstove, careful not to wake him. The baby stirred, let out a soft sigh, and settled again, his tiny mouth forming an O. Michael crouched beside him, just watching, memorizing him all over again. He looks like me, he thought. He’s mine.

The floorboards creaked overhead a memory, not a sound and Michael stood abruptly, heart hammering, breath shallow. He checked the door again. Still locked. Still alone. “It’s just us now,” he whispered, more to himself than to Ethan. “No more noise. No more lies. They can’t get to you out here.”

He paced once around the room, then sat cross-legged beside the baby, lowering his voice to a murmur. “You’ll see. I’m not the monster they said I was. I just… I needed time. I needed you.” Ethan shifted, his tiny fingers flailing for something in his dream. Michael caught one on his own and held it tight. “We’re safe now,” he said, even though the word tasted like smoke in his mouth. “You’re home, son. You’re home.”

The fire popped, sending sparks against the screen, and Michael flinched like it was a gunshot. He glanced at Ethan still asleep, thank God then moved to the window for the fifth time that hour. The woods were quiet, black and endless. Too quiet.

He told himself it was fine. That no one knew this place. He hadn’t written it down. Hadn’t told a soul. But still, he kept seeing it: flashing lights bouncing off the trees, boots in the snow, someone kicking down the door yelling his name like a curse.

He gripped the windowsill. His breath fogged the glass.

They’ll come for him. They always do.

Behind him, Ethan stirred, letting out a sharp, sudden wail. It was the first time he’d cried since the drive. The sound pierced through Michael like guilt, or memory. He rushed over, scooping the baby up and rocking him, too fast, too rough until he remembered to soften. “Shh, I’ve got you, I’ve got you,” he whispered, pressing his cheek to Ethan’s head. “They don’t get to take you again. Not this time. I won’t let them.” The crying slowed, then stopped. But Michael didn’t lay him down. He just stood there, holding Ethan like a shield, staring at the door.

The cabin was too quiet. Too still. Michael sat in the armchair by the window, Ethan pressed to his chest, finally asleep again. He hadn’t slept. Couldn’t. Every creak of the wood, every rustle of wind outside scraped across his nerves like a warning. The fire had burned low. Shadows stretched across the floor like fingers. He should’ve added wood. He should’ve gotten the bottle first. He

Footsteps.

Soft, deliberate. Not wind. Not imagination. Michael froze. The hair on his arms stood up. The sound came again closer. Then a voice, low and female, from the corner of the room.

“You think he’s safe with you?”

He turned, heart in his throat. No one there. Just the rocking chair by the fireplace. Empty. “You don’t even know what he needs,” the voice said again Nadyia’s voice, sharp and cold like a blade in the dark. “You couldn’t protect him before. What makes you think you can now?” Michael stood too fast, swaying, nearly losing his grip on Ethan. “Shut up,” he whispered. “You’re not here. You’re not real.”

The shadows twisted. The cabin tilted.

“You’re going to lose him,” she whispered. “Again.”

Panic rose like bile. He clutched Ethan tighter, stepping back, eyes scanning the walls for holes, for hidden cameras, for breath fogging on glass. “You’re not taking him!” he shouted, voice cracking as Ethan began to cry again, startled by the sound. The illusion snapped. No voice. No footsteps. Just firelight and a screaming baby and Michael’s chest heaving like he’d run ten miles barefoot through snow. He dropped to his knees on the cabin floor, Ethan wailing in his arms, and whispered, over and over, “I’m his father. I’m his father. I’m his father.”