Cressida Blake dared to publicly disown a six-year-old boy from his own family portrait

The sprawling mansion was eerily quiet as Maren led Evan up the sweeping marble staircase. The luminous, airy glow of the first floor gave way to the softer, more muted lighting of the family wing. The warm golden hues of the wall sconces guided them to the nursery, a massive room filled with toys, books, and a large, comfortable bed.

Maren helped Evan out of his formal dinner suit, hanging the small jacket in the closet and trading his stiff trousers for a pair of soft, cotton pajamas. The little boy was exhausted, the adrenaline of the evening leaving him heavy-limbed and lethargic.

Maren pulled the thick duvet back and tucked him in, sitting on the edge of the mattress. She smoothed his slightly wavy hair, her heart aching for the trauma he had endured.

"Are the bad men going to come here?" Evan asked, his eyelids drooping heavily. He knew enough about his father's world to understand that Cressida's departure meant trouble.

"Do you think anyone could ever get past your father to hurt you?" Maren asked softly, borrowing Atticus's method of questioning to comfort the child.

Evan smiled sleepily, his fair skin glowing in the dim light. "No. Daddy is the strongest."

"He loves you very much, Evan," Maren whispered, kissing his forehead. "You are safe."

Within minutes, the boy’s breathing evened out into a deep, peaceful rhythm. Maren remained seated on the bed for a long time, watching him sleep. Her graceful posture relaxed, the tension finally bleeding out of her slender figure. She closed her eyes, replaying the events of the evening. She had always known Cressida was a cruel woman, but the depth of the betrayal was staggering.

A soft, rhythmic tapping on the open doorframe broke the silence.

Maren opened her eyes and turned her head. Atticus stood in the doorway. He had discarded his suit jacket and unbuttoned his waistcoat, looking slightly less formal but infinitely more dangerous. The loose strands of dark hair fell over his forehead, and his powerful shoulders leaned casually against the wooden frame. His perceptive eyes were fixed on her.

Maren stood up quickly, smoothing her white apron over her short A-line skirt. "He just fell asleep, sir."

Atticus stepped quietly into the room, his polished shoes making no sound. He walked over to the bed, looking down at his adopted son with a profound, unspoken affection. He reached out, his beautifully tattooed fingers gently adjusting the blanket over the boy's shoulders.

"Does he look peaceful to you, Maren?" Atticus asked in a hushed whisper.

"He does, sir," Maren replied, standing close enough to smell the faint, intoxicating scent of his expensive cologne mixed with the dark, masculine scent of the night.

"Do you know that you are the reason he feels safe enough to sleep?" Atticus asked, turning his head to look down at her.

Maren’s breath caught in her throat. His physical proximity was overwhelming. The sheer, rugged beauty of his angular face and high-bridged nose was breathtaking up close.