Chapter Text
Bob doesn’t even register that he’s parked the car crooked in the driveway.
His pulse is already a low, dangerous thrum under his skin, the hair at the nape of his neck prickling with something he can’t name yet—but it’s wrong. The front door is ajar, moving just slightly in the breeze like a mouth about to speak.
Bob doesn’t even shut the car off as he runs inside, his heart in his throat. Something bad has happened, something really bad.
And Bob doesn’t know where Jake is.
He pushes inside, boots heavy on the hardwood, the scent hitting him first. Not Jake. Not their clean laundry or the faint tang of photo chemicals from Jake’s darkroom. It’s sharp, bitter—fear, adrenaline, and something acrid that makes the back of Bob’s throat burn. His gaze sweeps the living room, every instinct in him screaming intruder, and his stomach drops. The couch cushions are on the floor, one of the picture frames on the wall hangs at an angle, glass cracked in a thin spiderweb. The coffee table’s contents are scattered—magazines, the remote, a mug shattered into jagged pieces.
Jake’s camera is on the floor, the lens cracked.
His voice is low, steady, because if he lets it crack, he’ll lose control. “Jake?”
Silence answers him.
He moves through the house like he’s clearing a room, fingers flexing like they’re itching for a weapon. His eyes catch on the scuffs along the hallway wall, the faint smear—brownish red—half-wiped but not gone. The bedroom door is half-shut, and that’s when Bob’s chest tightens, because the bed is in disarray, sheets twisted, the scent of distress so thick it’s almost metallic.
“Jake!” This time his voice is sharper, but still not loud enough to echo.
No answer.
Someone had been in their bedroom. Someone had ripped apart their sanctuary.
He pushes into the bathroom, and the world stops.
Jake is there, crumpled in the porcelain tub like someone discarded him. The showerhead still runs in a slow drizzle, steam barely curling in the air. His skin is pale, too pale, blotched with fresh bruises along his jaw and the side of his neck. His lip is split. There’s a swelling on his temple where the hair is matted, the kind of injury that makes Bob’s stomach knot with fear. His wrists have faint abrasions, and there’s a tension in his limp body that speaks of pain even in unconsciousness.
The water runs pink as it pools near the drain. Bob can’t tell if it’s from blood or the way his mind has gone sharp-edged and predatory. The scent—scrubbed raw—hits him harder than anything else. Someone tried to erase Jake, erase what they did, and that sends a flare of rage so hot up Bob’s spine he almost growls.
“Jake, hey—hey, sweetheart.” His voice drops to that soft tone he uses only with him, even as his hands tremble when he cups Jake’s face. The skin is clammy. Too cold. “It’s me. I’m here now.”
There’s no response. Just a faint flutter of breath against Bob’s thumb. He does a quick check—breathing steady enough, pulse weaker than he likes but there. He wants to lift Jake out immediately, wants him away from this sterile, wet horror of a scene, but training overrides the primal need to move . Head injury. Possible internal injuries.
How long has he been like this?
His phone’s in his back pocket. He dials with one hand, the other still resting protectively along Jake’s shoulder. “This is Lt. Floyd. I need emergency medical at—” His voice wavers for the first time, but he forces it steady, gives the address, rattles off the situation in precise, clipped language even as his chest feels like it’s caving in.
When he ends the call, he leans closer, forehead brushing damp hair. “You’re safe now, Jake. I’ve got you. They’re not gonna touch you again, I swear it.”
Somewhere inside, the careful, even-tempered part of Bob is folding in on itself, leaving only the part that wants blood. Whoever did this is still breathing, and that is the last mistake they’ll make.
The water continues its soft hiss against the tile, but Bob can’t hear it over the hammering in his ears. All that matters is the weight of Jake’s body under his hands, and the knowledge that until Bradley gets here, it’s on him to keep Jake alive.
This wasn’t what Bob thought he’d come home to. Jake has been so happy being out of the Navy, building up their lives here. Hell, the three of them had been discussing pups right before Bob and Bradley had to ship out. The idea of starting a family had been so appealing. Jake had even been thinking of names.
Footsteps from downstairs catch his attention. “Bob! Jake!”
Bradley. He must have finished with Admiral Simpson sooner than they thought he would. “Up here!” Bob shouts.
Bradley’s boots hit the stairs two at a time, the sound heavy and urgent. By the time he rounds the corner into the bedroom, Bob is already kneeling on the tile, one hand braced protectively on the rim of the tub, the other still cradling Jake’s damp face.
Bradley stops dead in the doorway, his chest heaving. His eyes flick from Bob to Jake, taking in the soaked clothes, the bruises, the unnatural stillness. The shift in his scent is instant—shock, then a low, rolling wave of fury so potent Bob can almost taste it.
“What—” The word dies in Bradley’s throat. He swallows hard, jaw working, voice rough when he tries again. “What happened to him?”
Bob shakes his head sharply. “Don’t know yet. Found him like this. He’s breathing, but he’s cold, and—” His voice catches for the first time. “He’s hurt bad, Brad.”
Bradley’s hand fists at his side before he forces himself forward, crouching opposite Bob. His fingers hover over Jake like he’s afraid to hurt him more. He sweeps his gaze over every mark, every darkening bruise, and the sound he makes is quiet and deadly. “Where’s the medic?”
“On their way.” Bob’s tone is clipped, every word pressed through clenched teeth. “Two minutes out, maybe less.”
Bradley nods once, but his eyes stay locked on Jake. “We’re here now, baby,” he murmurs, leaning close enough that his breath stirs Jake’s damp hair. “You just hold on for us.”
Jake doesn’t stir.
Bob adjusts, shifting an arm behind Jake’s shoulders to keep his head elevated. “We can’t move him much until they get here. Possible head injury.”
“I know.” Bradley’s voice is taut, but there’s no arguing in it—just grim agreement.
From somewhere down the hall, the sound of sirens filters in, faint but growing. Bradley leans back, scanning the bedroom, then the open door to the hall. His eyes catch on the state of the sheets, the scattered clothes on the floor, the overturned lamp. The muscles in his jaw tighten until his teeth creak.
“They were in our home,” he says quietly, but there’s a dangerous promise in it. “In our space.”
Bob meets his gaze, steady but seething. “Yeah. And when I find out who, I’m gonna make sure they never breathe the same air as him again.”
The sirens cut off outside. Boots thunder through the front door, voices calling out. Bradley rises to wave them in, but he keeps his body angled so he’s still between Jake and the doorway. Bob stays where he is, eyes fixed on Jake’s pale, still face, as though his presence alone could anchor him here.
When the paramedics flood the room, their efficiency is immediate—bags unzipped, hands gloved, questions rapid-fire. Bob answers in precise bursts, not taking his hand from Jake’s face even as they work. Bradley hovers, scent radiating a protective, unyielding presence that makes the medics glance at him warily but keep working.
And under it all, that quiet, burning truth threads between them: whoever did this is out there, and neither of them will rest until they’re brought down.
Once they get downstairs and outside, Bradley and Bob both try to get in the ambulance with Jake but they’re stopped by the paramedic. “I’m sorry, but we need space to work. We’re taking him to Mercy—”
“No!” Bob says. “Mercy’s a chop shop for omegas! Take him to Balboa, he’s a Navy vet, they’ll take him.”
“I’m sorry, but we have to take him to the closest hospital. We don’t know what kind of head injury he has or other internals. You can have him transferred once he’s stable.” She shuts the door in their faces.
The back doors slam shut with a hollow, final sound that makes Bob’s stomach twist. The paramedic’s last words— closest hospital, head injury, internal injuries —are still ringing in his ears, but all he can hear beneath them is Mercy .
He and Bradley stand there for a split second, watching the red lights strobe across the street, the siren kicking in a heartbeat later. Then the ambulance is pulling away, and everything in Bob’s body surges forward. “Come on,” he snaps, already moving.
Bradley’s right behind him. “We’re not letting him go in there alone.”
They pile into Bradley’s Bronco, the doors slamming almost in unison. Bradley throws it into gear so hard the transmission protests, but he doesn’t care. Gravel spits from the tires as they tear out after the ambulance. The flashing lights are up ahead, weaving through traffic, and Bradley keeps them in sight like it’s a lifeline.
Bob’s phone is already in his hand. He’s scrolling through contacts with a thumb that trembles just enough to make him fumble. He hits Coyote’s number, the one labeled Javy – Don’t Hesitate .
Javy picks up on the second ring. “Hey, man—”
“It’s Jake,” Bob cuts in, his voice tighter than he means for it to be. “I came home and found him—someone broke in. He’s hurt. Bad.”
There’s a beat of silence, then Javy’s voice drops low, sharp. “Where are you?”
“Following the ambulance to Mercy.”
That makes Javy swear hard enough that Bob has to pull the phone slightly from his ear. “I’ll be there as soon as I can. Stay with him. I mean it—don’t let him out of your sight.”
“I won’t,” Bob says, though the words taste bitter because Jake’s already behind closed doors and sterile walls.
They hang up, and Bob doesn’t hesitate before hitting the next number. Admiral Ron “Slider” Kerner answers with the kind of alertness that says he’s always braced for bad news, even now. “Floyd? Everything alright?”
“No, sir.” Bob’s voice wavers just enough that Bradley glances over, jaw tightening. “It’s Jake. I found him—hurt. We’re on the way to Mercy.”
Ron’s inhale is sharp and loud over the line. “What happened?”
“I don’t have all the details yet. But it wasn’t an accident. Someone was in the house.” Bob’s hand curls tight around the phone, his knuckles aching. “He’s unconscious. They think head injury, maybe internal damage. I wanted you to know—”
“I’m on my way,” Ron cuts in, voice iron-clad now. “Don’t let them stonewall you at Mercy. And Bob—don’t let him think he’s alone in this.”
“I won’t,” Bob says again, but the words feel heavier this time.
He hangs up and leans back against the seat, every muscle in his body coiled like a spring. His eyes keep flicking to the lights ahead, the stutter of the ambulance in the traffic. Bradley’s hands are white-knuckled on the wheel, jaw clenched so tight Bob can hear the faint grind of teeth.
“They’re not keeping him there,” Bradley says, voice low but sure. “I don’t care what the doctors say about protocol. They’re not keeping him at Mercy after what they pulled last time.”
Bob knows exactly what he’s talking about. The memory is seared into both of them—the day Jake went to refill his suppressants, barely a month after his discharge, and the doctor had looked at his file, seen “former Navy,” and decided he didn’t need them anymore. No exam, no discussion—just the cold dismissal that Jake could “learn to live without.” Jake had come home shaking, more from humiliation than anger. Bob remembers the way Bradley had wanted to march down there and start breaking things.
The Bronco swerves slightly as Bradley changes lanes hard, cutting behind the ambulance just as it blows through another intersection.
Bob’s hands flex restlessly against his thighs. His pulse is a steady hammer, and every time he blinks, he sees Jake in the tub—pale, still, bruised. Whoever did that… it’s a thought he can’t finish without his throat going tight.
They don’t talk much for the rest of the drive. The siren ahead is the only sound, winding through the city streets toward a place both of them would rather burn down than trust with Jake’s life.
When they arrive at the hospital, Bradley parks haphazardly in one of the spaces and the two of them rush inside just as Jake is being unloaded from the ambulance. He’s still unconscious but one of the paramedics has wrapped a bandage around Jake’s head. “Bob, go with him,” Bradley says, “I’ll find an administrator and start the process to transfer Jake to Balboa.”
Bob doesn’t hesitate as he follows the staff to an exam room. A nurse tries to stop him but Bob shoves past him and into the room to be right next to his mate. “He’s allergic to ibuprofen,” he tells them, “all he can have is tylenol.”
“And who are you?” the doctor asks, an alpha by the scent of him. His labcoat reads Dr. Hank Henderson, Neurologist. There’s an air of cockyness already floating around him. Yeah, there’s no way Bob is going to leave Jake alone with this man.
“I’m one of his mates,” Bob snaps, “and I’m not leaving his side for a second while he’s here.”
The doctor barely looks up from Jake as if Bob’s presence is an inconvenience rather than a necessity. “You’ll need to wait outside while we run our assessment.” His tone is calm but dismissive, the kind of practiced authority that expects obedience.
Bob plants himself beside the bed, his hand resting on Jake’s forearm. “No. You’re not separating me from him.” His voice is low, deliberate, but there’s steel beneath it. “He’s an omega who’s been assaulted, possibly targeted. He doesn’t get left alone in this hospital with strangers.”
Dr. Henderson glances toward the nurse like he’s considering having Bob physically removed. Bob stares him down, meeting his eyes without flinching. The air between them feels taut enough to snap.
Finally, Henderson exhales in irritation. “Fine. But stay out of the way.”
“I’ll stay out of your way,” Bob corrects. “Not his.”
They move quickly—oxygen mask fitted, vitals taken, IV line started. Bob watches every hand that touches Jake, every instrument, every motion. He notes the bruising along Jake’s collarbone, the faint discoloration under the edge of the gown where they’ve covered him. Henderson orders a CT scan to check for internal bleeding, barking the instruction like Bob isn’t even there.
The nurse lifts the sheet to check for additional injuries, and that’s when Bob sees it. Just below Jake’s ribcage on the left side, carved into his skin in raw, ugly letters, is the word bitch . The cuts are shallow enough not to be life-threatening, but deep enough to scar.
For a second, Bob’s vision goes white-hot at the edges. He forces himself to inhale through his nose, slow, steady. “Stop.”
The nurse freezes, startled by the sharpness in his tone.
Bob steps closer, pulling the sheet back just far enough for the doctor to see. “You missed this.” His voice is cold now, clipped with restrained fury. “Document it. Photograph it. This isn’t just an injury—it’s evidence.”
Henderson’s brows draw together in faint annoyance, but he nods to the nurse. “Get a camera.”
Bob’s hand is still on Jake’s arm, grounding himself as much as Jake. “You’re not just treating his head injury. You’re documenting every mark, every bruise, every cut. And you’re noting exactly where they are in his chart. If I find out anything’s been skipped, I’ll make sure you answer for it.”
The nurse returns with a small digital camera, snapping the required photos. Bob doesn’t look away, doesn’t let himself flinch. Jake needs him clearheaded, not broken apart.
As they work, Henderson mutters something under his breath about “families getting in the way.” Bob doesn’t take the bait, but his gaze cuts to the man, sharp as glass. “I’m not in the way. I’m making sure my mate doesn’t leave this hospital worse than he came in.”
A tech arrives with a portable scanner, and Bob shifts only enough to let them slide it under Jake’s head, his palm never leaving Jake’s forearm. He can feel the faint warmth of his skin, the weak pulse fluttering beneath. The thought of Jake waking up here—confused, surrounded by strangers who don’t smell like safety—makes something deep in Bob’s chest clench.
When they’re done with the initial assessment, Henderson announces, “We’ll prep him for CT now.”
“I’m going with him.”
“That’s not standard procedure.”
Bob steps forward, his voice dropping to something lethal. “Neither is branding an omega with a slur. Yet here we are. So I’m going.”
The tech glances nervously between them, clearly unsure whether to intervene. Henderson finally relents with a curt wave. “Fine. But you’ll stay behind the lead shield.”
“Fine,” Bob says, already moving with the gurney.
As they wheel Jake toward radiology, Bob leans close, his voice pitched for Jake’s ears even if he’s still unconscious. “I’ve got you, sweetheart. You’re going to be okay. I promise.”
And in his mind, the promise sharpens into something deadly: whoever put that word on Jake’s skin is going to regret ever touching him.
Bradley’s leaning over the counter, both palms flat on the laminate, his shoulders squared and his voice already riding the line between controlled and explosive.
“I told you—Balboa is ready to take him. All you need to do is send the damn paperwork.”
The woman behind the desk, late forties, glasses perched low on her nose, doesn’t even glance at the phone she’s pretending to type into. “Sir, as I explained, that’s not possible. He’s been discharged from the Navy, which means he’s no longer eligible for care at a military facility.” Her tone is polite in the way a locked door is polite—unyielding, cold.
Bradley’s nostrils flare. “He’s a Navy vet. Honorably discharged. You think they don’t treat veterans? And I personally spoke with Balboa’s admitting desk—Jake Seresin is on their intake list right now, they’re waiting for your fax.”
“Sir,” she says again, a little more firmly now, “this is hospital policy. You can request a transfer after his discharge from Mercy—”
“No.” Bradley’s voice cracks sharp across the lobby, drawing a couple of startled glances from people in the waiting area. “You don’t get it—he’s not staying here. Not after what you people pulled the last time he came in. You refused him basic medication because some doctor decided he didn’t ‘need it’ anymore. You think I’m letting that happen again?”
Her expression hardens, as if the criticism is a personal affront. “Sir, if you can’t calm down, I’ll have to—”
The click of hard-soled shoes on tile cuts her off. The sound is measured, deliberate, carrying the kind of weight that makes people instinctively straighten their spines.
Admiral Ron “Slider” Kerner steps into the lobby in full dress uniform, the sheen of the medals on his chest catching the harsh fluorescent light. His presence shifts the air instantly—conversation dies, people turn to look. He doesn’t walk to the desk so much as arrive there, the kind of arrival that demands attention.
“Bradley,” he says, voice calm but with an undercurrent of urgency.
“Sir.” Bradley straightens without even thinking, but his frustration is still hot in his scent. “They’re stonewalling me. They won’t process the transfer—”
“I heard.” Ron doesn’t raise his voice, but when he turns his gaze to the woman behind the desk, it’s like steel cutting glass. “Ma’am. This is Lieutenant Commander Jacob Seresin we’re talking about. Former Navy, distinguished service, decorated pilot. He will be transferred to Balboa immediately. That’s not a request.”
The woman blinks, clearly rattled by the weight of the uniform and the tone. “Admiral, with all due respect, our policy—”
“You’re about to find out what my policy is,” Ron interrupts, still calm but now dangerous. “My policy is that when a Navy veteran, assaulted in his own home, is lying in your care, you don’t drag your feet because of bureaucratic pettiness. You move him to the facility best equipped to treat him. That’s Balboa. And if you’d like to make this an official complaint to the Board, I will be more than happy to attach your name to the paperwork.”
She swallows, her hands moving quickly now over the keyboard. “I’ll… contact Balboa’s admissions desk right away.”
“Do that,” Ron says evenly. “And expedite it.”
Bradley lets out a slow breath, his shoulders loosening just a fraction. “Thanks, sir.”
Ron’s eyes are still on the woman until she picks up the phone and dials. Only then does he glance at Bradley. “Where’s Bob?”
“With Jake. He’s not letting anyone near him without supervision.”
“Good,” Ron says, voice like granite. “Because until he’s out of this hospital, we don’t trust a single thing they do.”
Bradley can’t stop moving. His boots scrape the polished tile every few seconds as he makes another turn at the end of his pacing line, fingers flexing like they need something to hold, something to do . His mind won’t stop running loops—faces, names, grudges—every person who had ever looked at Jake with resentment, anyone who could have seen him as a target. The more he thinks about it, the tighter his jaw gets.
Ron, sitting ramrod straight in one of the uncomfortable vinyl chairs, keeps his eyes locked on the double doors at the far end of the hallway. His stillness is deceptive; the coil of tension in his shoulders could snap at any second. He doesn’t need to pace. His control is the kind honed over decades in uniform, but it’s thin right now—he’s holding onto it by sheer will.
“How bad did he look?” Ron’s voice is low, roughened with something Bradley doesn’t often hear in him.
Bradley doesn’t break stride, doesn’t even look up. “Bad. H-he was in the tub in the bathroom.” He swallows hard, the image burned into him in painful detail. “Someone scrubbed him clean with bleach and…” His voice cracks into a growl, a warning rumble in the chest of an alpha barely holding back a snarl. “This was planned. I know it.”
Ron draws in a deep breath through his nose, closing his eyes for a brief moment. The scent of his own fury bleeds into the air despite his effort to keep it contained. His pup. The word is a weight and an ache all at once. He didn’t know he even had a pup until the Navy medical system flagged the DNA match three years ago. By then, Jake had already lived through the loss of his mother, a carousel of foster homes, too many so-called caregivers who saw him as trouble or as a resource to exploit.
It had taken Ron a year—an exhausting, humbling year—to prove to Jake that he truly wanted to be there, not out of obligation, not out of guilt, but because he was his father . Another year for Ron to understand the quiet resentment Jake carried toward the Navy, not out of hatred for the work itself but because it had never been his choice. He’d enlisted because he thought he had nowhere else to go, no one else to stand behind him.
The thought that after all that, after building trust, Jake had been hurt like this —it sits in Ron’s gut like a burning coal.
The sharp click-click of approaching shoes pulls both their attention down the hall. A nurse rounds the corner, her expression brisk but not unkind. “You’re here for Lieutenant Commander Seresin?”
Both men are on their feet instantly.
“He’s more stable now,” she says, and they both catch the pause before she adds, “You can see him. But keep it calm—he’s still unconscious, and he’s been through a lot.”
Bradley’s already moving. Ron falls into step beside him, his long stride eating the distance.
The smell of antiseptic thickens as they push through the door into Jake’s room. The fluorescent lights hum overhead, casting everything in sterile white. Jake is propped slightly on the bed, an oxygen cannula under his nose, IV lines running from both arms. His skin is still pale, the bruises dark and stark against it, and there’s a faint crease between his brows even in unconsciousness.
Bob is right there, seated in the chair closest to the bed, one hand curled protectively around Jake’s forearm. His other hand drums restlessly against his thigh, but his eyes never leave Jake. The moment he registers Bradley and Ron, there’s a flicker of relief—quickly buried under the sharp edge of anger still simmering in his scent.
“How is he?” Bradley asks, already stepping closer to the bed.
“Stable,” Bob says, the word flat, clipped. “But that’s the only good news you’re getting right now.”
Ron moves to the opposite side of the bed, his hand ghosting over the rail but not quite touching. “What happened?”
Bob leans back slightly, his gaze narrowing toward the hallway as if the hospital staff might overhear and twist his words. “A trauma nurse came in about an hour ago to perform a rape kit. She was professional—one of the only ones who treated him like a person and not a chart—but…” His jaw tightens. “She doesn’t expect we’ll get anything from it. Not after the bleach. Whoever did this knew exactly what they were doing—every trace of DNA they could’ve left is probably gone.”
Bradley’s hands curl into fists at his sides. “So they planned it. Start to finish.”
“Planned it,” Bob agrees, his voice a low growl now. “And they wanted to send a message.” He glances at Ron, then Bradley. “I found the word ‘bitch’ carved into his side. Shallow, but it’ll scar. I made sure it got photographed for evidence.”
Ron’s expression doesn’t change much—but his eyes go cold in a way that promises retribution. “Has anyone from NCIS been called?”
“They said they’ll ‘consider’ it once Jake’s conscious and can make a statement,” Bob says, the sarcasm in his tone razor-sharp. “In the meantime, I’m not letting anyone near him unless I’m here. Not after the way the ER staff handled him. Henderson—neurologist—acted like I was in the way just by making sure they documented everything . If I hadn’t been there, half those injuries wouldn’t be in his chart.”
Bradley’s gaze flicks from Bob to Jake, then to Ron. “We need to make sure the minute he’s cleared for transfer, Balboa gets him. No more delays, no more excuses.”
Ron nods once. “Already in motion.” His hand rests briefly, gently, on Jake’s foot through the blanket, a silent grounding touch. “For now, we stay here. All of us.”
And as the machines beep quietly around them, the three alphas hold their silent vigil—Jake’s scent faint but still there, the anchor that keeps them focused. Whoever did this may have erased their traces, but they didn’t erase their target. And the hunt has only just begun.