Chapter 8 - The Morning After
Victor froze. For a terrifying second, I thought he was going to snap at the boy—tell him to go back to bed, hide his weakness behind that impenetrable wall of cold fury.
Instead, Victor swallowed hard. He reached grabbed a clean towel from the rack and draped it over his shoulder to cover the fresh bandages.
“No, buddy,” Victor said, his voice surprisingly gentle, though rough around the edges. “Just… a scratch. Harper fixed it.”
Finn looked at me, then back at his father. Slowly, timidly, the little boy walked into the bathroom. He stopped right in front of Victor’s knees, staring up at the giant of a man who rarely spent more than ten minutes in his presence without checking his watch or taking a phone call.
“Did the bad things hurt you?” Finn asked, his lower lip trembling slightly.
Victor looked down at his son. I saw the battle waging behind his gray eyes—the instinct to be the untouchable king versus the desperate yearning of a lonely father.
Slowly, carefully, Victor reached down with his uninjured arm and scooped Finn up, settling the little boy onto his good knee.
Finn gasped in surprise, then immediately buried his face into Victor’s bare shoulder, his small fingers clinging to his father’s neck as if he were afraid Victor would vanish into thin air.
Victor’s eyes closed tightly. A muscle leaped in his jaw, and I saw a single, silent tear slip past his lashes, disappearing into the dark stubble on his cheek. He wrapped his arm around Finn, pulling the boy flush against his chest, burying his face in his son’s dark hair.
“No, Finn,” Victor choked out softly. “The bad things didn't win. I’m right here. I’m right here.”
I backed out of the bathroom on silent feet, my throat aching with unshed tears. I pulled the door shut, leaving father and son alone in the quiet warmth.
I walked into the kitchen, my hands trembling as I leaned against the counter.
The line had been crossed. The boundary had shattered into a thousand pieces. I wasn't just the employee anymore. I had stitched his flesh; I had seen his tears; I had felt his fingers on my skin.
And heaven help me, I knew there was no going back.
The next morning broke clear and cold.
The blizzard had passed, leaving the world blanketed in three feet of pristine, untouched snow. The sun reflected off the white expanse, filling the safehouse with a blinding, diamond-like brilliance.
I came downstairs at seven to find the kitchen smelling of rich, dark coffee.
Victor was already up. He was wearing a soft gray cashmere sweater that disguised his bandages, dark jeans, and no shoes. He looked younger, softer, but no less formidable.
He was standing by the stove, awkwardly attempting to flip a pancake in an iron skillet with his right hand. The pancake landed half on the burner, folded over itself in a ruined mess.
“Damn it,” he muttered under his breath.
A soft laugh escaped my lips before I could suppress it.
Victor spun around, scowling, but there was an amused self-deprecation in his eyes that made my stomach do a dangerous flip.
“You find my domestic failures entertaining, Ms. Vance?”
“Highly,” I said, walking over and taking the spatula from his hand. “Sit down before you tear your stitches and ruin perfectly good batter.”
He didn't move away immediately. His body was warm, smelling of cedarwood soap and coffee. “I was trying to make breakfast for Finn.”
I looked up at him, my heart softening. “I can help. But only if you promise to sit at the table and eat it with him.”
May you like
Victor stared at me for a long beat. “Deal.”
***