They painted the wood-paneled walls in rhythmic, cold flashes of color.

Owen shivered, pressing himself closer to my side.

His small fingers tightened around the worn fabric of his teddy bear.

Lily was already asleep on the leather sofa, her breathing shallow and quiet under Ryker’s wool coat.

“I’ll go with you,” I said, taking a step toward the door.

“No,” Ryker said, his voice low and commanding. “You stay here with the children. Keep them away from the windows.”

He looked back at his nephew, his expression softening for a fraction of a second.

Owen looked up at his uncle, his eyes wide with a fear that no five-year-old should ever have to carry.

“Is the bad man coming to take us?” Owen whispered.

His voice was barely audible over the hum of the heating vent.

Ryker walked back over to the sofa and knelt in front of the boy.

He was a tall, imposing man, but he made himself small to meet Owen at eye level.

“No one is taking you, Owen,” Ryker said gently. “I promise you that.”