Page 43 of Breeding Justice

Skylar followed my gaze to Hassan. “Come on,” he said, stepping aside and gesturing for us to enter. “It’s safe—for now. Is SJ in the car?”

“Yes,” I said.

Hassan leaned in and picked up a sleeping SJ, who nestled against Hassan’s shoulder. He approached the door slowly, his eyes sweeping the street one last time before he stepped past Skylar. The three of us stood there for a beat, the unspoken weight of everything we’d been through pressing down on us. The quiet was thick, but it wasn’t awkward—it was loaded with shared history, with trust and tension in equal measure.

“Thank you,” Skylar said, his sharp blue eyes meeting Hassan’s steady gaze.

“Where’s Justice?”

“Inside.”

Hassan gave a small nod, his expression calm but reserved as he handed me the baby. “I’ll get the bags,” he said, his voice clipped, before turning back toward the car.

I opened my mouth to protest, but Hassan was already walking away, his movements deliberate and unhurried. Skylar shut the door behind us softly, leaving just the two of us in the dimly lit foyer.

“We were worried,” I said, the words coming out quieter than I’d intended.

Skylar’s eyes softened further. “I know,” he said simply. “But we’re all here now.”

Our gazes held for a moment, the silence stretching out between us. I didn’t need words to tell him how much it meant to see him alive, how much I needed him to be okay. He gave me a faint nod, as if to say he understood, and then turned, gesturing for me to follow him deeper into the safehouse.

“You’re okay, then?” I asked.

“Yes,” he said. “But Justice is hurt. And if something happens to her…I don’t know, Zane. I don’t know how any of us will be okay ever again.”

Chapter Eighteen: Justice

The late-night quiet of the safe house in Naples was fragile, broken only by the rhythmic creak of the bed beneath me and the faint hum of cicadas outside the window. Zane’s hands were steady as they worked, but I could see the exhaustion carved into his features. The dim light overhead cast shadows under his eyes, deepening the lines etched by days of running, fighting, and barely sleeping.

Pain flared in my side as he applied antiseptic to the wound, sharp enough to make me suck in a breath. “Sorry,” he murmured, his voice soft but clinical. His words carried no comfort, just the efficiency of a man used to patching up others under worse conditions.

“It’s fine,” I said, though my tone was tighter than I intended. My hands gripped the edge of the mattress, knuckles white againstthe worn fabric. I wasn’t sure what hurt more—the searing sting of the antiseptic or the weight of guilt sitting heavy in my chest.

In the next room, SJ’s soft, steady breathing filtered through the baby monitor on the nightstand. I glanced toward it, the sight of the tiny glowing screen both a comfort and a dagger.

“He’s a tough kid,” Zane said, following my gaze. “You’ve done good by him.”

My throat tightened. “Have I?” The words came out bitter, edged with doubt. “I brought him into this. I dragged him into my mess.”

Zane didn’t look up from his work, but his movements slowed, just for a fraction of a second. “You didn’t drag him into anything, Justice. You’re trying to protect him. That’s more than a lot of kids ever get.”

I let out a hollow laugh, bitter and sharp. “Protecting him? By running, hiding, and hoping we don’t all get killed?”

“What was his other choice? Jez and Alicia? You and Bash are doing better. You’re giving him a chance at a normal life.”

“How the fuck is this a normal life?”

Zane didn’t reply immediately. He finished securing the bandage around my torso, his fingers gentle as they smoothed the edges. Then he sat back, his hazel eyes locking onto mine. “You’re still here. He’s still here. That’s all that matters.”

His words landed harder than I expected, cutting through my spiral of doubt. I looked away, staring at the cracked paint on the wall. He was right—about SJ, at least. But Bash and Skylar?

And Hassan?

How were they going to get out of this unscathed? I loved all of these men and I couldn’t stand the thought of anything happening to any of them. I was barely aware of my own pain—I had never been shot before, but until I’d seen Hassan carrying my baby into the safe house and putting him into his crib, I was running on adrenaline. The pain hadn’t come yet.

Not even as Zane was touching me.

“You need to rest,” Zane said, standing and gathering the scattered medical supplies. “You’re no good to him like this.”

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