Chapter 6
The sweeping marble staircase led Clara and Theo away from the bright, airy grandeur of the main floor and up into the quieter, more intimate family wing of the mansion. The warm golden light from the wall sconces cast soft shadows across the thick, patterned carpets.
Clara helped Theo out of his velvet dinner jacket, hanging it carefully in the closet before retrieving a pair of soft, cotton pajamas. The little boy was exhausted, the adrenaline of the evening finally catching up to his six-year-old frame. He climbed into his large, comfortable bed, pulling the thick duvet up to his chin.
"Are the bad men going to come here?" Theo asked, his American accent small and laced with anxiety. He understood enough of his father's world to know that Rosalind’s furious departure meant danger.
Clara sat on the edge of the mattress, smoothing his neatly combed hair back from his fair forehead.
"Do you think anyone could ever get past your father?" Clara asked, borrowing Everett's method of questioning to comfort the boy.
Theo smiled sleepily, his rosy cheeks relaxing. "No. Papa is the strongest."
"He loves you very much, Theo," Clara whispered, picking up a leather-bound storybook from the nightstand. "You are entirely safe here."
She began to read, her voice a soft, melodic hum that quickly lulled the child into a deep, peaceful sleep. Clara remained seated on the bed for a long time, watching the steady rise and fall of his chest. Her graceful posture finally relaxed, the tension bleeding out of her slender figure. She closed her eyes, replaying the terrifying, awe-inspiring way Everett had defended her.
A quiet, rhythmic tapping on the open doorframe broke the silence.
Clara opened her eyes and turned her head. Everett stood in the doorway. He had discarded his suit jacket and unbuttoned his waistcoat, looking slightly less formal but infinitely more dangerous. His powerful shoulders leaned casually against the wooden frame, the loose strands of his wavy hair falling over his forehead. His perceptive eyes were fixed entirely on her.
Clara stood up quickly, smoothing her white apron over her short A-line skirt. "He just fell asleep, sir."
Everett stepped quietly into the nursery, his polished shoes making absolutely no sound. He walked over to the bed, looking down at his 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, Clara?" Everett asked in a hushed whisper.
"He does, sir," Clara replied, standing close enough to catch the intoxicating scent of his expensive cologne mixed with a hint of dark whiskey.
"Do you know that you are the reason he feels safe enough to rest?" Everett asked, turning his head to look down at her.
Clara’s breath hitched in her throat. His physical proximity was overwhelming. The sheer, rugged beauty of his angular face and high-bridged nose was breathtaking up close.
"I just did what anyone would do," Clara deflected modestly, her rosy cheeks flushing under his intense gaze.
"Do you truly believe that anyone else in that dining room would have defied my fiancée to catch him?" Everett asked softly.
"They were afraid of her, Mr. Sinclair," Clara answered honestly. "She had a way of making the staff feel completely worthless."
"Should I have paid closer attention to the shadows in my own home?" Everett asked, looking away, a rare expression of guilt crossing his handsome face. "Did my ambition blind me to the cruelty happening under my own roof?"
Clara felt a sudden, desperate urge to comfort the powerful man standing before her. She took a tentative step closer, her elegant posture radiating quiet strength.
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"You were building an empire for him, sir. You couldn't have known," Clara said softly.
"Are you defending my failures, Clara?" Everett asked, looking back at her, a faint, almost imperceptible smile touching the corners of his mouth.
