Chapter 8 - The Warmth in the Dark
The black SUV pulled into the circular driveway of the Lake Forest estate at 11:15 PM.
The storm had passed, leaving the night sky clear, dark, and filled with brilliant, icy stars that reflected off the deep snowdrifts surrounding the stone mansion.
Lawson stepped out of the vehicle. He didn't look at the guards standing near the security kiosk. He walked straight up the stone steps, through the grand front doors, and up the winding staircase to the third floor.
The hallway was dark, save for the soft amber light spilling out from beneath the door of Room 104.
Lawson pushed the door open quietly.
The room was warm, filled with the gentle, soothing scent of simmering lemon and cinnamon.
Jonah and Blythe were fast asleep in their twin beds, their breathing deep, steady, and synchronous. Their small faces looked peaceful in the soft light of a single ceramic nightlamp sitting on the windowsill.
Waverly was sitting in the wooden rocking chair between the two beds. She had an old wool blanket pulled over her lap, a paperback book lying open in her lap, her head resting back against the cushions, her dark eyelashes still against her cheeks. She had fallen asleep waiting for him.
Lawson walked across the cotton rug, making no sound.
He stood beside the rocking chair, looking down at her tired, peaceful face.
For the first time in three years—for the first time since the bullet took Genevieve on that cold street in Chicago—Lawson Mercer felt a profound, overwhelming sense of peace settle over his heart. It was not the bitter satisfaction of an empire defended; it was the quiet, sacred warmth of a man who had finally found his way back into a home.
He reached down gently, catching the edge of the wool blanket as it slipped from her shoulder, and tucked it back around her neck.
Waverly stirred. Her eyes opened slowly, blinking against the amber light, looking up at him.
“You’re back,” she whispered, her voice rough with sleep.
“I’m back,” Lawson said softly.
She looked at his face—scanning his forehead, his jaw, his dark eyes—looking for the telltale signs of the violence she knew he had walked into three hours ago. She found no fresh blood. She found no cold, dead numbness in his eyes.
She found only him.
“Did you finish your business?” Waverly asked quietly.
Lawson knelt beside her rocking chair, resting his arm on the wooden armrest, his dark eyes fixed on her face.
“Yes,” Lawson murmured. “It’s finished. No one is coming to this house again.”
Waverly reached out her hand from beneath the blanket. Her fingers, warm and smooth, touched the side of his jaw, her thumb gently tracing the line of his cheekbone.
“Good,” Waverly whispered. “Because Jonah built another bridge today, and he wants you to see it in the morning.”
May you like
Lawson closed his eyes, leaning his face into the warm palm of her hand, letting out a long, quiet breath that carried away the last lingering remnants of the cold dockyard air.
“I’ll be here,” Lawson promised. “I’ll be here in the morning.”
