A Father's Blood, A Mother's Flight

JULIAN

A father's blood flows through his son.

Those words echoed in my head as I watched the crimson liquid travel through the tube from my arm. My second donation in less than twenty-four hours. I should have felt weak, drained. Instead, I felt more alive than ever before.

Fabian was my son. My son.

The nurse adjusted the needle, her movements precise and practiced. "You're doing great, Mr. Sinclair. Just a little longer."

I barely heard her. My mind was replaying every moment I'd spent with Fabian since meeting him. His smile. His laugh. The way he looked up at me with those eyes—my eyes—full of curiosity and wonder.

How had I not seen it immediately? The evidence had been right in front of me all along.

"Your blood type is incredibly rare," the nurse commented, checking the collection bag. "It's fortunate for the little boy that you were here."