Chapter 7
Lydia was shaking. Her sophisticated black maid dress felt incredibly thin in the aftermath of the violence. She had just witnessed the destruction of a massive mafia alliance, all because she had stopped a child from taking a bite of birthday cake. She looked at the mafia boss, terrified of the impending war that was surely about to consume the estate.
"Are you injured, Lydia?" Julian asked quietly, his perceptive eyes searching her delicately featured face.
"I am unharmed, sir," Lydia answered, her voice trembling as she kept her hands folded over her neatly tied white apron. "But... I know what just happened. I know the Shaw family will come for you because we spoke."
"Do you believe I would allow a woman who murders children to remain in my home out of fear of her father?" Julian asked, a flicker of profound, protective warmth entering his cold eyes as he looked at her.
"I didn't know what to expect, Mr. Blackthorne," Lydia whispered, her expressive brows drawing together. "I just knew Owen couldn't eat that. When I saw the peanuts... I thought he was going to die right here."
"Did you think a monster would punish the only person with the courage to save his son?" Julian asked gently.
He didn't walk away. He stood there, holding his son, his towering masculine frame casting a long shadow in the golden light. The rigid boundaries of class, wealth, and danger had been completely obliterated in the span of a single evening.
"Will you accompany us upstairs, Lydia?" Julian asked, his gaze lingering on her softly oval face. "Do you think I trust anyone else in this house to watch over him tonight?"
"I will come," Lydia said softly, the reality of her new position settling heavily upon her.
"Are you prepared for the war that begins tomorrow?" Julian asked, turning his broad shoulders toward the heavy mahogany doors.
The private west wing of the mansion was a stark contrast to the opulent, echoing dining hall. The corridors here were lined with plush carpets and warm, muted lighting, designed specifically to be a sanctuary. Julian walked silently down the hall, carrying Owen effortlessly. Lydia walked a half-step behind him, her black maid dress swishing softly. Heavy, armed guards nodded respectfully as they passed, their eyes widening slightly as they registered the housemaid walking so closely with the boss.
They reached the heavy oak door of Owen’s nursery. Julian pushed it open, stepping into the room bathed in the soft glow of a bedside lamp. He gently lowered Owen onto the large bed.
"Will you help him change into his pajamas, Lydia?" Julian asked softly, looking over his shoulder.
"Yes, Mr. Blackthorne," Lydia said, moving quickly to assist the exhausted seven-year-old.
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While Lydia worked, Julian remained by the window, looking out over the dark grounds of his estate. He removed his tailored suit jacket, draping it over a chair, then unbuttoned his crisp white shirt at the collar, revealing the artistic neck tattoo. He watched Lydia interact with his son in the reflection of the glass, observing the gentle, maternal care she offered the broken boy.
"Is he resting?" Julian asked, turning back as Lydia pulled the comforter up to Owen's chin.
