Frankie cleared the thickness from her throat. “Um, Dr. Grayson. Zachary. My friend’s son—Aric—my godson isn’t here. He’s at the Hermitage, and he’s…had a rough time. Could you speak with him, too?”

Zachary’s eyes softened. “Bull and Hawk called me for exactly that purpose. Caz and Gabe asked me to check on the survivors here, too, but I’ll be heading for the Hermitage in an hour or so.”

Bull smiled slightly, dimples appearing. “You should check on Hawk, too. He’s pretty freaked out—the kid won’t let him out of his sight.”

The psychologist nodded. “Indeed. We’ll be having a chat.”

The way he said that, as if he had no doubt that Hawk would cooperate, reminded her of Gabe. Both men were commanders, used to giving orders and being obeyed.

Bull wasn’t like that, and without thinking, she moved closer to him. He didn’t have any driving need to be in charge, yet had no problem taking the reins if it was needed. And he’d decimate anyone and anything that threatened the people he protected.

He was simply amazing. Was it any wonder how much she loved him?

Hawk was damned grateful the kid had slept most of the day. So had he…in between getting up and pacing now and then.

He had no fucking clue what to do with a rugrat, especially one that was… “How old are you anyway?”

Aric was sitting at the kitchen table munching on a carrot. Hopefully, the snack would tide him over, since Gabe wanted everyone together for a late supper at Mako’s.

Aric held up four fingers. The kid didn’t speak if gestures could be used, and if he did speak, it was in a whisper. Yeah, the kid was a mess.

Four years old. Would he be in kindergarten this year? He sure seemed awful small.

“C’mon, let’s go feed the chickens and collect eggs.” Hawk held his hand out, because otherwise the boy would latch onto his leg.

Walking with a kid wrapped around his leg was not happening.

Aric grabbed his hand, and Hawk felt a pang inside at how tiny the fingers were. On Caz’s orders, he’d had Aric take a bath before fixing him a bed on the couch. And again following Caz’s advice, had dumped in enough shampoo to make bubbles. While the kid played—with worried glances at Hawk between each splash—he had a chance to check the damages.

The pale little body was covered in bruises and gashes.

Hawk scowled. It’d brought back too many memories of his childhood.

He’d been a brave rugrat, though, taking the soap and scrubbing down. And he’d let Hawk wash his hair. Whoever’d beat the shit out of the child probably hadn’t been a pedophile.

Thank fuck.