Chapter 8 - The Lesson of the Wrist
At 8:00 a.m. the following morning, the sun broke through the river fog, casting long, brilliant rays of amber light through the tall windows of the nursery suite.
Oliver was standing in the center of his bedroom, his feet wide, his face set in an expression of intense concentration.
Finn was standing opposite him, holding a plastic training knife he had taken from his toy box.
"No, Finn," Oliver said, his voice mimicking Josephine’s calm, authoritative cadence with terrifying accuracy. "You're stepping with the wrong foot. If you step with the left, I take your elbow. Step with the right."
Finn let out a small, dramatic huff, shifted his small boots on the carpet, and lunged forward with the plastic knife.
Oliver didn't reach for the knife. He stepped to the outside of Finn’s right boot, caught Finn’s small wrist with his left hand, and used his right forearm to guide Finn’s momentum past his hip. Finn stumbled forward, tripping over Oliver’s heel, and landed softly on a pile of decorative throw pillows.
"Good," a low, gravelly voice said from the doorway.
Oliver turned quickly.
Roman was standing in the doorframe. He was wearing a soft gray cashmere sweater and dark trousers, a mug of black coffee in his hand. His face looked rested, the deep silver lines around his eyes smoothed out, his posture relaxed in a way Oliver had never seen before.
Behind him stepped Josephine.
She was wearing a long, dark blue jersey dress that fit her heavy frame like a glove, her auburn hair braided neatly once again, her grey eyes bright and clear in the morning sun.
"He used the outside step, Dad," Oliver said proudly, pointing at Finn, who was currently laughing on the pillow pile. "Like Josephine showed us."
Roman set his coffee mug down on the low bookshelf. He walked into the room, knelt on one knee in front of Oliver, and looked his eight-year-old son in the eye.
"Oliver," Roman said softly.
"Yes, Dad?"
"Do you know why we learn these moves?"
Oliver thought for a second, his small brow furrowing. "To... to beat up the bad guys?"
Roman shook his head slowly. He reached out, his heavy hand catching Oliver’s small shoulder, squeezing it gently.
"No," Roman said. "We learn them so that when the bad guys come, we don't have to be afraid. We learn them so we can protect the people who depend on us."
He looked up at Josephine, who was standing three feet away, her hands folded over her apron, watching them with a quiet, deep warmth in her eyes.
"Josephine taught you how to break a grip," Roman continued, turning back to his son. "Do you know what she taught me?"
"What?" Oliver asked.
"She taught me that the strongest thing in this world isn't a gun or a house with iron doors," Roman said, his voice dropping into that low, resonant tone that filled the room. "It’s having someone beside you who won't leave the mat."
Finn scrambled up from the pillow pile, his small white socks sliding across the floorboards until he bumped into Josephine’s heavy legs. He reached up, his small hands clutching the hem of her dark blue dress.
"Josephine?" Finn asked, looking up at her with big, wide eyes. "Are you going to stay here forever?"
Josephine looked down at the six-year-old boy, then looked up at Roman.
May you like
Roman stood up from his knee. He walked across the small distance between them, his hand coming up to rest over Josephine’s on her hip—his fingers long, scarred, and possessive, locking around her broad waist with a quiet, absolute certainty.
"She’s not going anywhere, Finn," Roman said, his eyes fixed on Josephine’s grey ones. "She’s the anchor of this house."
