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Chapter Four

The past two days had been a blur of work, half-finished conversations, and stolen glances that never quite led anywhere.

He and Henry had talked more after lunch that day—over dinner, over breakfast the next morning—but there were no easy answers.

Henry had stayed careful. Lincoln had stayed frustrated. And then work had swallowed them whole.

Henry had been buried in negotiations, fighting for forty people at the Environmental Protections Agency who were on the brink of layoffs. Lincoln had barely seen him, catching glimpses of his tense shoulders and exhausted sighs in the late hours of the night.

Lincoln’s own caseload had taken a turn when the call came in about Douglas.

This twelve-year-old boy had been accused of premeditated attempted murder.

His bruised and battered body told a story far more horrifying than the one the prosecution wanted to spin about a calculating, remorseless monster.

His gut reaction had been immediate. He hadn’t needed to read a single line of the reports to know the truth—it was written in the boy’s sunken cheeks, in the way his shoulders curled inward like he was trying to make himself smaller, in the old and fresh bruises that painted his skin in shades of pain.

But gut reactions didn’t win cases.

He needed facts. Evidence. A strategy.

The case files were spread across his desk, and formed a chaotic sea of black-and-white reports, crime scene photos, and medical evaluations.

Somewhere between the coffee he hadn’t finished and the messages from his brother he had been avoiding, Lincoln stared at the ceiling, letting his eyes go unfocused.

If he looked at one more photograph of bruised ribs or cigarette burns pressed into young, fragile skin, he might put his fist through the wall.

The office smelled like burnt coffee and printer ink, and the air felt heavy, weighted with unspoken failures. Not his failures but the system’s. A system that let kids like Douglas slip through the cracks until they wound up in courtrooms, standing trial for surviving.

He’s twelve, not even a teenager.

Lincoln exhaled slowly, pressing his palm over the case file, grounding himself in the weight of it. Focus. The words on the medical report blurred before sharpening into focus again.

X-rays showed nine healed or partially healed fractures and three broken ribs. More recent were the fingertip-shaped bruises around his throat.

The boy had been drowning in abuse for years, and no one had noticed. And no one had stopped it.

The paper crumpled in his fist, tension coiling through his arm before he forced his fingers to uncurl. Exhaling slowly, he flattened his palm over the wrinkled page, smoothing out the damage as if that could undo the reality staring back at him.

Twelve years old, and the system wanted to throw him away.

His phone buzzed again. Jefferson.

The call went to voicemail. Again. Lincoln pushed the phone away, his jaw locking as the weight in his chest doubled.

A knock on the door had him glancing up to find Derek Kiriakis from the Kansas Department for Children and Families in the doorway.

“Are you ready?”

Lincoln ran a hand down his face and straightened. “Do I have a choice?”

Derek stepped inside, nodding toward the files spread across the desk. “It’s bad.”

“They always are,” Lincoln murmured. He felt the scrape of stubble against his palm as he rubbed his jaw. He’d forgotten to shave again. Henry would’ve noticed.

Derek pulled out the chair across from him and sat, resting his forearms on the desk. “We’ve worked on cases like this before.”

Lincoln met his gaze, already knowing where this was going. “Josh.”

Derek nodded. “Yeah. You and I fought for him when no one else would.”

Lincoln leaned back, exhaling through his nose. “And look how that turned out. He’s a student at West Point.”

Derek gave him a pointed look. “Exactly.”

Silence settled between them. Lincoln could feel Derek watching him, measuring, assessing. Doms were like that. Always watching. Henry did the same thing.

Lincoln finally spoke. “What do you suggest?”

Derek leaned back, expression thoughtful. “I have an idea.”

Lincoln checked the time and exhaled sharply. “Walk with me. Our meeting with the DA is in five minutes—tell me on the way.”

Derek smirked, pushing to his feet. “You just want me to handle the hard part.”

Lincoln grabbed his briefcase and gestured toward the door. “I prefer to think of it as delegation.”

Derek shook his head, but the hint of a smile played at the corner of his lips as they strode out of the office.

The courthouse had always felt cold. Not physically—Lincoln knew the temperature was fine—but there was something sterile about the air, something impersonal about the way the walls absorbed sound. It wasn’t a place built for warmth or comfort. It was built for judgment.

And today, that judgment would be on a twelve-year-old boy who barely had the strength to lift his chin.

Douglas Carter sat across from him, small and hunched over in a chair far too big for his thin frame.

His wrists were swallowed by the oversized cuffs of his detention-issued jumpsuit.

His collarbone jutted out, his shirt hanging loose on his frame.

The bruises were impossible to ignore—old scars mapping his arms, fresh swelling still visible around his right eye.

Three weeks ago, Douglas had shattered a liquor bottle against his father’s temple.

The new DA wanted to charge him with attempted murder and prosecute the boy as an adult. Because his father was a cop, they weren’t going to do anything about the abuse.

Lincoln exhaled slowly, pressing his palm over the case file. “Douglas,” he said, keeping his voice low. “I need you to listen to me, okay?”

The boy flinched slightly but nodded.

“I know this is scary. But we’re not letting them do this to you. You fought back. That doesn’t make you a dangerous criminal.”

Douglas swallowed, his fingers curling into the fabric of his jumpsuit.

Lincoln sat back, his gaze shifting to Derek, who stood at his right. Derek had his arms crossed, but there was something firm in his stance.

The courtroom doors opened, and the DA entered, briefcase in hand, expression sharp and unreadable. He barely glanced at Douglas before settling into his seat across the table.

“We’re proceeding with charging him as an adult,” he said, flipping open a folder. “Given the violent nature?—”

Lincoln didn’t let him finish. “If you take this to trial, I want to remind you—every single scar, bruise, and wound on this boy’s body has been photographed.

” He kept his voice level, but inside, his anger burned hot.

“He has nine healed fractures. Three broken ribs. Fingertip bruises from where his father tried to strangle him.” He let that sit in the air before continuing.

“You will not find a jury willing to convict a twelve-year-old for fighting back against that kind of monster.”

The DA hesitated.

Derek finally stepped forward. “I have a proposal.”

Lincoln already knew what he was about to say. Rehabilitation instead of punishment. Foster care instead of juvie. A future instead of a prison sentence.

But the DA wouldn’t budge unless he saw the benefit.

Lincoln straightened his tie and leaned forward. “Let’s cut through the bullshit.”

The DA’s mouth thinned. “Excuse me?”

“If you push this, I will dismantle your case before the jury gets through their first cup of coffee.” Lincoln gestured toward the file in front of him. “I will make you watch twelve strangers take one look at this boy’s injuries and come to the only conclusion that makes sense: self-defense.”

The DA stayed silent.

Derek moved in. “We have a foster family lined up. Helen and Jacob. They have experience with kids from rough backgrounds. Douglas will serve four hundred hours of community service before he turns eighteen.”

Lincoln met the DA’s stare head-on. “You take this to trial, and you lose. You let him take the deal, and you get to walk away looking reasonable. Also, I want to see charges against the father for the obvious abuse Douglas has suffered.”

A long pause stretched between them.

Finally, the DA sighed. “I’ll review the paperwork. But I can’t promise about the father.”

Lincoln exhaled, but the relief didn’t last.

His phone buzzed again.

The name ‘Jeff’ flashed on his screen.

His brother never called twice in a row unless it was about their father.

Lincoln clenched his jaw, shoving the phone back into his pocket. Not now. Not today.

The smell of soy sauce and fresh fish lingered in the air as Lincoln set down his empty plate.

He stretched out his legs, shifting against the couch cushions, and resisted the urge to slide down to the floor between Henry’s legs.

That had always been his place. Settling between his Master’s knees, his back against Henry’s warmth, his head resting in his lap as strong fingers stroked through his hair.

But this—leaning against Henry’s side, his arm slung over Lincoln’s shoulder—this was good too.

“Are you done eating?” Henry asked, voice low and familiar.

Lincoln swallowed, and his throat suddenly felt dry. “Yes, Sir.”

Henry paused the movie before shifting back into the couch, tugging Lincoln along with him, adjusting until their bodies fit together like they always had. His fingers ran slow, aimless patterns over Lincoln’s shoulder and upper arm, the weight of his arm around Lincoln’s shoulders comforting.

“How was your day?” Henry flexed his fingers where they rested on Lincoln’s shoulder, the warmth of his palm seeping through the fabric of Lincoln’s shirt.