Chapter 5
The sprawling mansion was eerily quiet as Orson led Maris and Asher up the sweeping marble staircase. The luminous, airy glow of the first floor gave way to the softer, more muted lighting of the private master wing. The warm golden hues of the wall sconces guided them past heavy silk curtains and antique furnishings, leading them to the massive oak doors of Orson’s personal suite.
Orson opened the doors, revealing a sprawling, luxurious room. A massive, carved stone fireplace roared with a steady, crackling blaze, casting dancing shadows across the plush rugs and heavy velvet drapery. The room was a sanctuary of heat and security.
“Will you bring him close to the hearth?” Orson asked, gesturing toward the large leather armchairs arranged in front of the fire.
Maris nodded, guiding the shivering boy toward the warmth. She knelt before the fire, gently rubbing Asher's arms through the heavy wool of Orson's suit jacket.
“Will you draw a hot bath for him, Maris?” Orson asked, stepping toward an adjoining dressing room. “Can you find a dry change of clothes in his closet?”
“Right away, sir,” Maris answered, standing up. Her own wet uniform clung uncomfortably to her legs, but she ignored the chill, moving swiftly into the massive en-suite bathroom to start the water.
Within twenty minutes, Asher had been scrubbed clean, warmed in the steaming water, and dressed in a pair of thick, soft cotton pajamas. The terror of the evening was slowly melting away, replaced by heavy, exhausted lethargy. Maris carried him back into the main suite, tucking him securely into the center of Orson’s massive, king-sized bed.
Orson stood near the fireplace, watching them in silence. He had removed his waistcoat and rolled up the sleeves of his crisp white shirt, revealing the full extent of the refined tattoos that spiraled up his powerful forearms.
“Are the bad men going to come here?” Asher asked, his eyelids drooping heavily as he looked from Maris to his father. He understood enough of the syndicate life to know that Eleanora’s violent departure meant danger.
“Do you think anyone could ever get past me to hurt you?” Orson asked softly, stepping up to the edge of the mattress.
Asher smiled sleepily, his fair skin glowing in the dim, firelit room. “No. You’re the strongest.”
“Are you feeling warmer, my boy?” Orson asked, leaning down to press a gentle kiss to his son's forehead.
“Yes, Dad,” Asher whispered.
“Will you try to get some sleep now?” Orson asked.
Asher nodded, his eyes finally closing. His breathing quickly evened out into a deep, peaceful rhythm.
Orson remained standing by the bed for a long moment, watching his son sleep. He then turned his perceptive gaze toward Maris. The housemaid was still wearing her soaked, ruined uniform. She stood near the edge of the room, shivering slightly, her arms wrapped around her waist to conserve body heat. Her softly tapered face was pale, her beautiful hair falling from its chignon in damp, heavy waves.
“Are you attempting to catch pneumonia in my bedroom, Maris?” Orson asked, his deep voice carrying a gentle, almost teasing rebuke.
Maris’s eyes widened, her rosy cheeks flushing a deep pink. “No, sir. I was just waiting to be dismissed so I could return to the staff quarters to change.”
“Do you believe I would send you away shivering after what you did for my family today?” Orson asked, walking slowly toward a large mahogany armoire.
He opened the doors and pulled out a thick, luxurious cashmere sweater and a pair of soft flannel lounge pants. He turned and held the dry clothing out to her.
“Will you use the adjoining guest bath to change out of those wet clothes?” Orson asked.
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Maris stared at the expensive clothing, overwhelmed by his unexpected, fierce consideration. “Mr. Vale, I couldn't possibly wear your clothes. I am just a maid.”
“Did you act like 'just a maid' when you threw yourself into a freezing pool to save my blood?” Orson asked, taking a slow step toward her, holding the clothes out with his tattooed hands. “Will you take them?”
