Chapter 8
Gemma immediately took Owen’s hand, pulling the boy securely behind the folds of her black maid dress as Wesley stepped into the lavishly decorated suite. The room smelled sickeningly of Valerie’s expensive floral perfume. Silk garments were strewn across velvet chaise lounges, and the vanity was cluttered with glittering jewelry.
Wesley moved with terrifying, methodical precision. He ignored the diamonds and the silk, focusing entirely on the locked mahogany medicine cabinet in the adjoining dressing room. With another effortless display of brute force, he ripped the wooden doors off their hinges, splintering the wood.
He reached inside, his tattooed fingers retrieving a small, unmarked amber glass vial. He held it up to the light of the crystal sconces, inspecting the clear liquid inside. His jaw clenched so tightly the muscles jumped beneath his stubble.
He walked back out to the hallway, holding the vial. He looked at Gemma, his cold eyes darker than she had ever seen them.
“Is this what you saw her pouring into his glass?” Wesley asked, holding the vial up.
Gemma looked at the amber glass, nodding quickly. “Yes, sir. That’s it. She used a small dropper.”
Wesley stared at the vial for a long moment, internalizing the sheer depth of the betrayal. He slipped it into his suit pocket, pulling out his mobile phone once again.
“Are you in the cellar, Marcus?” Wesley asked into the receiver. He paused. “Will you have the doctor meet us down there immediately with a toxicology kit?”
He ended the call, looking down at his son. Owen was exhausted, rubbing his eyes, the adrenaline of the evening finally wearing off.
“Will you take him to his room and lock the door, Gemma?” Wesley asked, his voice returning to a low, protective rumble.
“Of course, Mr. Blackwood,” Gemma said, picking Owen up. The six-year-old was heavy, but she held him securely against her chest. “Will you... will you be alright down there, sir?”
“Do you worry for my safety, Gemma, or for hers?” Wesley inquired, tilting his head slightly.
“I worry for yours, sir,” Gemma answered honestly, her expressive brows drawing together. “Her father is going to come for you. You have to know that.”
“Do you think I am unprepared for a war?” Wesley asked. He reached out, his hand hovering for a second before he gently brushed a stray lock of hair behind Gemma’s ear. The touch was incredibly soft, a jarring contrast to the violence he had just inflicted upon the doors. “Will you promise to keep him safe until I return?”
“I promise,” Gemma whispered, her heart fluttering wildly at his unexpected touch.
Wesley gave her a single, slow nod, then turned and walked toward the grand staircase leading down to the subterranean levels of the estate.
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Gemma carried Owen to the west wing, hurrying past the armed guards. She reached the boy’s bedroom, carried him inside, and locked the heavy door behind them, throwing the deadbolt. She laid Owen down on his bed, pulling the thick comforter up to his chin. The boy was already half-asleep, entirely exhausted by the ordeal.
She sat on the edge of the bed in the dim light of the nursery, listening to the suffocating silence of the mansion, waiting for the inevitable storm to break.
