Page 2 of Single Mom’s Navy Seals (Claimed by the Alphas #2)

AVA

F ive years later…

My eyes blur from staring at the canvas for so long, colors merging together until the painted details become a meaningless smudge.

Stretching my arms above my head, the bones in my back crack, protesting loudly after being hunched in front of this painting for hours.

I shift back on my stool, flexing my fingers, stiff with drying paint and exhaustion.

I catch my reflection in the window—a mess of brown curls piled in a loose bun, paint streaked across my cheekbone, dark circles beneath my eyes. Witness Protection doesn’t exactly come with spa days.

This commission has taken over my life for the past few days, but I can’t complain.

It’ll feed us for three months, maybe more if I budget it right.

A family portrait for a wealthy couple’s anniversary isn’t exactly my idea of thrilling art, but it's paying the bills. Thankfully, Eli’s been easy today, keeping himself busy with puzzles and a fortress made entirely out of couch cushions.

I can hear him softly narrating a story to himself from the living room, his voice rising and falling dramatically with every new twist in his story.

Only child syndrome at its finest. He’s been that way ever since he could sit upright.

Most days, it makes things easier, him being content on his own while I scrape together enough paintings to keep us afloat.

But more often than not, the quiet hurts.

It reminds me of how much I hate the isolation I’ve forced upon him.

I wanted a house filled with noise and chaos once, kids racing down hallways, toys littering every inch of the carpet, the kind of home I’d had when my mother was still alive.

Back when family was everything and love was loud.

It had felt attainable then before Mom died.

Before my father showed me exactly what he thought a daughter was worth.

Now, it’s just me and Eli, making do in silence.

My eyes drift involuntarily to the messy crayon drawings taped haphazardly across my studio wall, Eli’s latest masterpieces.

It’s not the gallery I once dreamed of, but it’s the one that matters.

Eli deserves more. He deserves siblings to chase around, a family bigger than just me and the stray cat who visits once in a while.

But you can’t exactly date, let alone get pregnant, in Witness Protection, and the thought of Randy ever touching another child of mine makes bile rise hot in my throat.

I glance at my phone, sitting on the windowsill.

It used to buzz incessantly with updates from Morales about Randy’s case, updates that turned my stomach and stole my sleep.

I stopped checking after the first few months of his trial.

Anxiety kept me wired all night, waiting for Randy’s inevitable victory.

Because it would be a victory for him. Men like Randy don’t stay locked away forever, not with lawyers who could buy their way out of Hell if they had to.

But right now, he’s still behind bars. And as long as he stays there, Eli and I are safe. At least, safe enough.

A loud crash from the living room snaps me out of my spiraling thoughts.

I shoot up from my stool, heart pounding, and rush out into the main room of our tiny cabin.

Eli sits on the floor surrounded by a sea of couch cushions and blankets, eyes wide and blinking up at me like he’s innocent. A fallen chair rests beside him.

“Eli, what happened?” I try to keep my voice calm, but my pulse still thuds unevenly in my chest. My nerves fray quicker these days, no matter how many times I remind myself that we’re safe.

“Sorry, Mommy. The castle got attacked by bad guys. Had to defend it.” He holds up a cushion as if it explains everything.

I exhale, tension draining away with the breath. “Bad guys, huh?”

He nods seriously. “They were pirates.”

“Sounds dangerous.” I fight a smile, picking the chair back up. “Next time, maybe warn me before you start battling pirates in the living room?”

“Okay.” He hops up, oblivious to my panic, and rearranges the cushions with the casual efficiency of a professional pirate slayer.

I watch him for a moment, my heart aching softly again. He’s so good at entertaining himself, but he shouldn’t have to be. I hate Randy for taking this from him. I hate myself a little, too, even though I know I’m doing my best.

The familiar ache settles in my chest, and I glance back toward my studio, suddenly exhausted. I need fresh air and a break from the bitter memories. I ruffle Eli’s hair on my way past him.

“Mommy’s taking a break, okay? Stay inside. No more pirates until I get back.”

“Got it, Captain Mommy,” he chirps, already lost again in his world of make-believe.

In the kitchen, I pour myself a mug of instant coffee, grimacing at the watery brew. It’s disgusting, but coffee is coffee, and right now I need the caffeine more than the taste. Mug in hand, I step outside onto the porch, taking a deep breath of cool Vermont air.

I lean against the porch railing, inhaling the sweet, earthy scent of pine trees and morning mist. Vermont mornings are crisp, especially in late September, and I tug my oversized cardigan tighter around my shoulders.

My breath puffs out in little clouds as I sip lukewarm coffee from my chipped mug.

It’s not exactly Starbucks, but five years in witness protection have turned me into a woman with very realistic expectations. Instant coffee it is.

I glance around the small clearing surrounding our little cabin, nestled in the thick Vermont woods.

It’s quiet out here, secluded enough that most people wouldn’t stumble across us by accident.

Exactly what the Marshal Service wanted, and exactly what I needed.

When Avalina died and became Ava, so did everything else from my past. Randy went to jail, and my father followed soon after.

Morales told me two years ago that he’d been released.

I remember feeling nothing other than a distant disappointment that he made it out on “good behavior.” There was nothing good about that bastard.

Taking another sip of my coffee, I sigh and take a seat on the porch.

I don’t know why life feels heavier lately.

Witness Protection had never been perfect, but over the last few months, since Eli turned five, it has been feeling a lot more isolated.

Suddenly, I could see that my baby boy wasn’t quite a baby anymore.

The guilt of having to keep him essentially locked up here like some half-Italian ‘Rapunzello’ or whatever feels crueler every day.

My twenty-seventh birthday passed a month after Eli’s, and the feelings only got worse.

That’s when I started thinking about how lonely I was, too.

How badly I wished I could have the kind of love I read about in my raunchy romance books upstairs.

I scrub a hand over my face and put the coffee mug on the porch step next to me. I try to get control of my thoughts. Dwelling on what I don’t have only makes everything feel heavier. It’s better to think about what I do have.

Life here isn’t glamorous, not by a long shot, but it’s ours.

There’s no threat of mafia business, no henchmen lurking at our front door.

Just me, Eli, and Rocket, the scruffy stray tomcat who showed up one day and comes back whenever he pleases to visit.

He’s not exactly our cat since he hated being inside the one time Eli convinced me to try to keep him as a house cat.

Rocket, like me, has tasted freedom and will not be contained.

But he does show up occasionally for cans of tuna and a few head pats.

“Mommy, look!” I look over my shoulder in time to see Eli come flying out of the cabin’s front door, all sandy-brown hair and bright blue eyes.

He’s waving a piece of paper around like it’s the biggest news. He skids to a stop in front of me, grinning so wide, the gap from his missing tooth practically beams.

“I drew us,” he announces triumphantly, thrusting the artwork at me. “You, me, and Rocket!”

I kneel to get a better look, setting my mug aside. The drawing is surprisingly good for a five-year-old. I mean, I like to believe I have some talent myself, considering I’ve made a job of my art, so it’s nice to see my baby boy take after me.

I lean closer and give a soft chuckle. He’s drawn my hair as a massive cloud of brown scribbles. At least he’s honest. The natural curls I have are definitely giving “poof” these days.

“This is amazing, baby,” I tell him, wrapping him up in my arms and planting a kiss on his rosy cheek. “We should hang it on the wall.”

His eyes widen in excitement. “Next to the picture of us fishing?”

“That’s a great spot.” Also, one of our only free spots, considering our walls are covered with his art.

Eli beams again, then darts back inside without a word, probably on a mission to find tape. Watching the door swing closed behind him, I feel my heart swell. There’s something indescribably pure about Eli’s happiness that makes every sacrifice worth it. He’s free here. Safe. Protected.

The door bangs open again, and Eli reappears, a roll of tape now clenched in his tiny hand.

“Okay,” he pants, a bit breathless. “I got the tape.”

“You definitely do.” I ruffle his hair, earning myself a giggle and a mock pout.

Together, we head back inside. The cabin is cozy, with rough-hewn walls and mismatched furniture that I’ve collected from thrift stores over the years.

It might not make it onto any interior design blogs, but I’m proud of it.

Eli runs straight to the fishing picture and begins to position his latest creation.

“You need any help?” I ask, already knowing the answer.

“Nope,” Eli insists, his little tongue sticking out in concentration as he rips tape off the roll with his teeth. “Got it.”

“Okay, independent man.” I chuckle, watching him fuss over getting it just right.

“Mommy, why don’t we have neighbors like in my books?” Eli asks suddenly, pressing the tape down firmly with a tiny finger.

“Because neighbors are overrated,” I joke, though a pang of guilt hits my chest.

I know what he’s really asking. He sees the kids in storybooks playing together, riding bikes, and going to school. He’s getting to the age where he wants friends, and I’m too scared to give that to him. It’s something I ache to give him, but this isolation is part of our safety.

“Plus, Rocket’s not good with neighbors. He only really likes us, you know.”

He giggles again, the question forgotten for now, but it lingers in my thoughts as we continue with our day.

We homeschool during the day, his eager little mind soaking up letters and numbers faster than I ever did.

It works, but it isn’t the same as having friends his age.

I wish things were different. But as much as the loneliness creeps in sometimes, it’s a price I’m willing to pay. Loneliness is better than fear.

The day passes in a familiar rhythm. Eli and I work on his letters and math until early afternoon.

We read books sprawled on the rug, then head outside to chase Rocket around the yard.

Evenings are my favorite, when we make dinner and eat beneath the stars.

It’s peaceful, filled with laughter and stories.

And tonight, it’s spaghetti night, Eli’s absolute favorite.

He bounces in his chair as I ladle pasta onto his plate, his blue eyes shining brighter than the tiny battery-powered lantern beside us.

“Mommy, did you know astronauts eat spaghetti in space?” he informs me with serious conviction, twirling noodles around his fork.

“Wow,” I reply, pretending astonishment. “Who knew spaghetti was so cosmic?”

He nods vigorously. “It is. So maybe one day, we’ll eat spaghetti in space.”

“I like your style, kid.” I laugh. “Dream big.”

After dinner, Eli drifts off, worn out from his adventures and endless questions about space pasta. I tuck him in, brushing soft curls off his forehead and pressing a gentle kiss there.

“Love you, Mommy,” he murmurs sleepily, snuggling closer to his stuffed bear.

“I love you too, baby,” I whisper, lingering a little longer before closing his bedroom door behind me.

Alone now, I lean against the kitchen counter, savoring the quiet.

It's funny how silence can feel both comforting and suffocating.

I love our life here. I truly do. However, sometimes the weight of being the only adult around, the sole protector, and the one who must always remain vigilant can be overwhelming.

Shaking away the sudden melancholy, I rinse the dishes, humming. It’s nights like this that remind me why every difficult day, every lonely moment, is worth it. Eli is safe. He’s happy. He’s free to grow up without the shadows of my past haunting his every move.

I finish up, step onto the porch again, and settle into the old rocking chair, pulling my cardigan tighter against the chill. Rocket curls up at my feet, his warmth a comforting presence.

The stars glitter overhead, so clear and bright out here that sometimes I forget how dark the world can be.

An owl hoots, and I lean back, eyes drifting closed, letting the calm of the evening wrap around me.

My world is quiet. Safe. And for the first time in a long time, I let myself believe that it might stay that way.

Until the shrill ring of my cell phone shatters the peace, my heart jolts, and I nearly fall out of my chair, scrambling for it, hands shaking. Only one person calls this phone. And the reason can’t be good.

“Hello? Agent Morales?” My voice shakes as I answer, dread already pooling in my stomach.

“Ava,” Morales’ voice comes through crisp and urgent. “We’ve got a problem. Randy’s getting out.”