Chapter 10
The following morning, the Thorne mansion was bathed in bright, airy sunlight that poured through the richly draped windows. The luminous colors of the estate felt renewed, as if the heavy, oppressive presence of Camille had been physically washed away.
Iris stood in the grand dining hall, now acting in her new capacity. The room was empty of guests, the long walnut tables cleared of the gold-rimmed porcelain and crystal stemware from the aborted engagement dinner. She watched as two maintenance workers carefully polished the carved marble fireplace.
Resting exactly where Malcolm had secured it the night before was the small framed portrait of his late wife. It stood proudly between the two silver candlesticks, a permanent, untouchable fixture in the heart of the home.
"Does the room look different in the light of day?"
The deep, low voice caused Iris to jump slightly. She turned to see Malcolm entering the dining hall. He wore a fresh, tailored charcoal suit, his thick, wavy hair swept back immaculately. The small neck tattoo was visible above his collar, a stark reminder of his brutal profession.
"It feels much lighter, sir," Iris smiled, her fair, rosy cheeks flushing at his sudden appearance.
"Is it possible that a single act of defiance can clear the fog from an entire estate?" Malcolm asked, walking toward the fireplace.
He stopped beside her, their shoulders mere inches apart. He looked down at the portrait of his late wife, his cold eyes unreadable.
"Have the perimeter guards reported any unusual activity?" Malcolm inquired, shifting his focus to the impending conflict.
"The head of security said the perimeter is quiet, sir," Iris answered, having been briefed earlier that morning. "But they are expecting retaliation from the Sterling family before nightfall."
"Do you believe the Sterlings have the tactical discipline to breach my defenses?" Malcolm asked, a dark, terrifying confidence bleeding into his tone.
"I don't think anyone could breach your defenses, Mr. Thorne," Iris replied honestly.
Malcolm turned his head, his perceptive eyes locking onto hers. The warm morning light highlighted the delicate cheekbones of her softly tapered face. The air between them felt suddenly charged, thick with a complex mixture of gratitude, danger, and an undeniable, magnetic pull.
"Will you promise to keep Lucy in the secure wing until I tell you it is safe?" Malcolm asked, his voice dropping into that intimate, low register.
"You have my word," Iris promised, her expressive brows drawing together in concern for him. "Will you be safe?"
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"Does a man who has finally found something worth defending ever truly lose?" Malcolm asked softly.
He held her gaze for a long, heavy moment, the unspoken tension vibrating between them. Then, the heavy mahogany doors of the dining hall banged open, and his lead capo rushed into the room, his face grim. The war had begun. Malcolm didn't flinch. He gave Iris one last, lingering look, a silent promise of his return, before turning to face the fire.
