Chapter 8
The distant, high-pitched wail of the estate’s security sirens began to bleed through the thick, soundproofed walls of the master suite. The red emergency strobe lights flickered outside the windows, casting a bloody, chaotic glow over the sprawling grounds. The assault was imminent.
Maris stood shivering in the oversized cashmere sweater, holding Asher’s small hand tightly in hers. She looked up at Orson, her heart hammering violently against her ribs.
“Are you trembling from the cold, or from fear, Maris?” Orson asked, his deep voice a low, steady anchor in the escalating storm.
“Fear, sir,” Maris admitted honestly, her expressive brows drawn together. “They have an army coming for you. Because of me. Because I spoke up.”
“Did you think I would have spared the woman who tried to drown my son, even if you had remained silent?” Orson asked, his hand reaching out to gently cup her cheek, a gesture of profound intimacy despite the rifle slung over his shoulder.
“No,” Maris whispered, leaning infinitesimally into the warmth of his tattooed palm.
“Do you trust me to keep you safe?” Orson asked, his cold, observant eyes burning with an intense, unyielding fire.
“I trust you with my life,” Maris replied without hesitation.
“Will you follow me closely, and stay exactly where I put you?” Orson asked.
“Yes,” Maris promised.
Orson nodded. He dropped his hand and turned, leading them out of the master suite and into the dimly lit, red-washed corridors of the mansion. The bright, luminous colors of the engagement dinner were a distant memory, replaced by the chaotic strobe of emergency lights and the frantic shouting of tactical guards moving into position.
They bypassed the grand sweeping staircase, moving down a concealed, highly secured service stairwell that plunged deep into the bedrock beneath the estate. The air grew cooler, smelling of polished concrete and filtered air.
As they reached the heavy, bank-vault-style steel doors of the panic room, a massive explosion rocked the foundation of the mansion above them.
The shockwave knocked Maris off balance. She stumbled, but Orson’s powerful arm shot out, catching her by the waist and holding her steady. Dust and plaster rained down from the ceiling.
“Are you injured?” Orson shouted over the ringing in their ears.
“I’m okay!” Maris gasped, pulling Asher tightly against her legs. “They breached the gates!”
“Did they truly believe reinforced steel and iron would yield so easily?” Orson asked, his jawline clenching as he punched a rapid code into the keypad beside the vault door.
The heavy steel gears groaned, and the door swung open, revealing a brightly lit, heavily fortified room stocked with emergency supplies, monitors, and comfortable cots.
“Will you and Asher go inside?” Orson asked, gently pushing them across the threshold.
Maris turned back to face him, her beautiful, softly tapered face etched with deep terror. Orson was not stepping inside with them. He was standing in the corridor, his weapon raised, his eyes locked on the staircase leading back up to the war zone.
“Are you leaving us?” Asher cried out, tears returning to his eyes.
“Must a king not stand at the gates to greet his uninvited guests?” Orson asked, crouching down briefly to meet his son’s eyes. “Will you be brave and protect Maris for me until I return?”
“Yes, Dad,” Asher sniffled, puffing out his small chest.
Orson stood back up to his full, towering height. He looked at Maris, the electric tension between them palpable even in the chaos.
“Will you lock this door, and open it for absolutely no one but me?” Orson asked, his voice a low, gravelly command.
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“I promise,” Maris whispered, tears spilling over her lower eyelids. “Please, Orson. Come back to us.”
“Do you think I would let them take me away from you now?” Orson asked, offering a faint, terrifying smile that promised absolute devastation to his enemies.
