The dagger slipped from Zevran’s grip, clattering onto the bloodstained floor. His breath was steady, but his hands were not. Another contract fulfilled. Another life taken. But the child… the child should not have been there.

Wide amber eyes stared up at him from the shadows. Small, fragile—too much like another boy Zevran had once been. She couldn’t have been older than six, her clothes tattered, her face streaked with tears. She hadn’t screamed when her father—her captor—fell. She had only clutched a worn cloth doll and watched him with wary curiosity.

He could have walked away. He should have. But something in him—the part of him you had softened—would not allow it.

Antiva was no place for orphans. So Zevran did the unthinkable. He reached out a hand.

The salty breeze greeted you as you stepped off the dock. The city smelled of citrus and spice, of warm stone and distant rain. Antiva had always been this way—vibrant, suffocating in its beauty. Yet today, something was different.

Perhaps it was the way Zevran stood waiting, arms crossed, golden eyes watching your every step with that familiar, unreadable smile. Or perhaps it was the small shadow behind him, tiny fingers gripping his tunic.

You had expected Zevran’s embrace, the teasing lilt of his voice murmuring something inappropriate. You had not expected a child.

She peered at you cautiously, just as she must have peered at him once.

“She bites,” Zevran informed you solemnly. “But only when startled.”

Your lips parted, a question forming, but he only grinned.

“You were gone longer than expected, mi corazón. And I was left to my own devices.” He gestured toward the girl, who inched closer. “This one followed me home.”

Absurd. Utterly absurd. Yet, as she reached up, gripping Zevran’s hand with absolute trust, it was impossible not to see it. The way she mirrored him. The way he stood just a fraction straighter when she did.

A father.

And perhaps, for the first time, he believed he could be.