Chapter 8
Dorian raised his tattooed hand, his knuckles gently brushing against the soft curve of her jawline. It was a fleeting, electric touch that promised a future far more complicated than employer and employee. The quiet mutual affection they had shared in stolen glances was finally breaking through the rigid boundaries of their social status.
"Will you trust me to keep you safe when the war begins tonight?" Dorian asked, his voice a low, gravelly promise.
"Always," Maren replied without hesitation.
Before either could speak again, the quiet of the study was shattered by the distant, high-pitched wail of the estate’s security sirens. The red emergency strobe lights flickered outside the tall windows, casting a bloody, chaotic glow over the sprawling grounds.
Maren gasped, instinctively taking a step back as the alarms wailed, the sound piercingly loud through her restored hearing aid.
Dorian’s demeanor changed in a microsecond. The gentle protector vanished, replaced instantly by the cold, lethal mafia king. His powerful shoulders squared, and his observant eyes narrowed into dangerous slits.
He strode quickly to a reinforced steel safe embedded in the wall paneling and punched in a rapid code.
"Are the perimeter guards engaging hostiles?" Dorian demanded into a secure radio sitting inside the safe.
"Boss!" his underboss's frantic voice crackled back over the speaker. "The Ward syndicate didn't wait for morning! They hit the eastern gates with heavy explosives! We have multiple hostiles on the grounds!"
"Are the interior blast doors engaged?" Dorian asked, remaining terrifyingly calm despite the adrenaline surging through his veins.
"Engaging now, sir! But they have military-grade armor. We are returning fire, but they are pushing hard toward the family wing!" the operative shouted over his radio.
"Will you hold the main hall until I arrive?" Dorian asked.
"We will hold the line, Mr. Hartwell!"
Dorian released the radio button. He reached under his desk, his tattooed hands moving with practiced, lethal precision, and pulled out a heavy, customized automatic weapon. He turned and looked at Maren. She was backed against the wall, her expressive eyes wide with fear, yet entirely resolute. She was not running.
"Are you prepared to lock this door behind me?" Dorian asked, walking toward her.
"Are you leaving me here?" Maren cried out, panic finally lacing her American accent. "They have an army, Dorian!"
She used his first name in her desperation, the formality dropping away in the face of imminent death.
"Will you survive running through a crossfire in the main hallway?" Dorian asked bluntly, his imposing frame blocking the exit.
"I can't just stay here and listen to them come for you!" Maren pleaded, stepping closer to him, her hands trembling.
Dorian stared at the beautiful woman before him. She possessed a profound, quiet courage that completely eclipsed the shallow, venomous nature of the elites he normally dealt with. She was willing to run into a gunfight rather than hide behind a locked door.
"Are you willing to follow my exact orders to keep yourself alive?" Dorian asked, his cold eyes burning with a fierce, protective fire.
"Yes," Maren promised without hesitation.
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"Shall we go show them exactly what it costs to threaten my home?" Dorian asked.
He didn't wait for an answer. He grabbed her hand, his warm, tattooed fingers wrapping securely around her delicate wrist, and pulled her out of the study into the chaotic, flashing hallway.
