Chapter 8
The sprawling mansion was eerily quiet as Della led Micah up the sweeping marble staircase. The luminous, airy glow of the first floor gave way to the softer, more muted lighting of the family wing. The warm golden hues of the wall sconces guided them to the nursery, a massive room filled with toys, books, and a large, comfortable bed.
Della helped Micah out of his formal dinner jacket, hanging it carefully in the closet and trading his stiff trousers for a pair of soft, cotton pajamas. The little boy was exhausted, the adrenaline of the evening leaving him heavy-limbed and lethargic.
Della pulled the thick duvet back and tucked him in, sitting on the edge of the mattress. She smoothed his neatly combed hair, her heart aching for the trauma he had endured, carrying the secret of his mother's murder for an entire year.
"Are the bad men going to come here?" Micah asked, his eyelids drooping heavily. He knew enough about his father's world to understand that Beatrice's father would be very angry.
"Do you think anyone could ever get past your father to hurt you?" Della asked softly, borrowing Ronan's method of questioning to comfort the child.
Micah smiled sleepily, his fair skin glowing in the dim light. "No. Daddy is the strongest."
"He loves you very much, Micah," Della whispered, kissing his forehead. "You are safe."
Within minutes, the boy’s breathing evened out into a deep, peaceful rhythm. Della remained seated on the bed for a long time, watching him sleep. Her graceful posture relaxed, the tension finally bleeding out of her slender figure. She closed her eyes, replaying the events of the evening. She had always known Beatrice was a cruel woman, but the depth of the betrayal was staggering.
A soft, rhythmic tapping on the open doorframe broke the silence.
Della opened her eyes and turned her head. Ronan stood in the doorway. He had discarded his suit jacket and unbuttoned his waistcoat, looking slightly less formal but infinitely more dangerous. The loose strands of dark hair fell over his forehead, and his powerful shoulders leaned casually against the wooden frame. His perceptive eyes were fixed on her.
Della stood up quickly, smoothing her white apron over her short A-line skirt. "He just fell asleep, sir."
Ronan stepped quietly into the room, his polished shoes making 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, Della?" Ronan asked in a hushed whisper.
"He does, sir," Della replied, standing close enough to smell the faint, intoxicating scent of his expensive cologne mixed with the dark, masculine scent of the night.
"Do you know that you are the reason he feels safe enough to sleep?" Ronan asked, turning his head to look down at her.
Della’s breath caught 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," Della 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 comfort my child?" Ronan asked softly.
May you like
"They were afraid of her, Mr. Ellsworth," Della answered honestly.
"May I see your wrist now?" Ronan asked, his voice shifting from gratitude to a firm, unyielding command.
