Page 11 of Blackwood

His face twitches. Barely, but I see it. A sharp breath. A flicker in his dark eyes. But instead of asking questions, he just nods slowly and steps forward.

“I’m Ezekiel. Ezekiel Malik Carter. Named after my Dad,” he says, softer now, like he doesn’t want to scare me more. “But everyone calls me Zeke.”

He crouches beside me, his shadow shielding mine.

“You’re not alone no more, Isabella. Not ever again. I got you. Whatever it takes.” His voice is strong and steady. A hand reaching out in a storm.

“He’s not sellin’ you. Not touchin’ you either. I swear on everything I won’t let that happen.”

“S-sell me?” I whisper, the words trembling out like cracked glass. My fingers clutch tighter at the sheet beneath me. “Why would he sell me?”

Zeke curses under his breath and looks away, jaw tense. “Nah, scratch that. You don’t need to worry about it. That’s my shit to handle not yours.”

“But—”

He turns back to me, fierce and honest. “You’re safe now, Isabella. I swear. Just try to get some rest, yeah?”

He says it like a vow. Like he owes me something I don’t understand yet.

“Bella,” I whisper, my voice barely holding together. “It’s just Bella.”

The tears come fast and hot, spilling over before I can stop them. My chest shakes with the weight of everything I don’t understand, everything I don’t want to feel. The name that doesn’t even feel like mine anymore, just something I said to prove I still existed.

Zeke doesn’t ask another question. He just pulls me into him. His arms are strong and sure, like he’s been holding broken things his whole life.

“It’s gonna be okay,” he says quietly like a promise. “Not tonight. But soon.”

I bury my face in his hoodie and let the sobs rip through me.

There’s a creak at the door and small footsteps patter on the marble floor.

“C’mere, Dylan,” Zeke says.

The little boy I saw earlier peeks in, wide-eyed and cautious. He doesn’t speak. Just walks over, climbs into Zeke’s lap, and rests his little hand on mine.

“This is Dylan,” Zeke says real soft, brushing the kid’s hair out of his face. “He don’t talk much ‘til he knows you’re solid. But he’s brave as hell. Way braver than he should have to be.”

And so we sit, the three of us. Pressed close in a room that smells like salt and secrets. Where the silence creeps through the curtains and the shadows don’t need to scream.

A boy already scarred by fire and ghosts.

A girl already breaking before she knew how to heal.

And a little child with scraped knees and more heart than the world deserved.

It isn’t safety. Not yet. But it’s something. A sliver of hope in a house built on nightmares.

Chapter 7

BELLA - Age 13

Miami, Florida

Carlos slams the cabinet door so hard the marble counter top trembles. I flinch, every muscle locking up as the echo of his voice ricochets off the vaulted ceilings, rattling inside my chest like a warning bell that won’t stop ringing.

Outside, spring shimmers like a postcard. The ocean breeze drifts in through the arched kitchen window, warm and golden, laced with the scent of orange blossoms from the manicured garden. Birds chirp like nothing is wrong. Like the world is soft. Safe.

But inside? This house is curated like a gallery, beautiful on the surface but hollow underneath. And if you stare too long, you’ll start to see the cracks behind the gold.