Chapter 8 - THE WHISPER OF TREASON
The storm outside had finally passed when Declan returned to his Lake Forest estate at two in the morning.
The air was brisk, smelling of damp cedar and the cold waters of Lake Michigan.
Inside the mansion, the lights were dimmed to a soft amber glow.
Declan removed his suit jacket, tossing it onto a leather armchair in his study.
He poured himself two fingers of single-malt scotch.
His muscles ached, but his mind refused to quiet down.
He walked down the corridor toward the master suite.
The door was slightly ajar.
He pushed it open with two fingers.
Norah was sitting by the French doors that opened to the stone balcony.
She was wearing an oversized black silk robe that belonged to him.
Her dark hair hung loose around her delicate shoulders.
She held a cup of chamomile tea in both hands, staring out at the dark horizon where the lake met the sky.
She looked fragile.
Yet when she turned her head at the sound of his footsteps, there was no fear in her eyes.
Only an overwhelming exhaustion.
“You shouldn't be awake,” Declan said softly.
He stepped into the room, leaning against the doorframe.
“I tried to sleep,” Norah replied.
Her voice was quiet, melodic.
“Every time I closed my eyes, I heard Julian’s voice.”
“I heard the sound of that IV machine.”
Declan walked over to her.
He pulled a wooden chair close and sat down facing her.
“Julian is in a federal holding cell,” Declan told her.
Norah blinked.
“Federal? Not... not your basement?”
A faint, self-deprecating smile touched Declan’s lips.
“You think I kill everyone, Norah?”
“I know what you are, Declan,” she whispered.
She looked down at the dark tea in her cup.
“I’ve managed your calendar for three years.”
“I know who visits your office after dark.”
“I know which envelopes don't have return addresses.”
She raised her gaze to meet his.
“I also know that for three years, you never let anyone disrespect me.”
“When the Russian syndicate representative made an obscene comment to me in the elevator two years ago, he was gone the next day.”
“You told HR he had relocated to Moscow.”
“Did he?”
Declan took a slow sip of his scotch.
“He relocated to the bottom of the Calumet River.”
Norah didn't flinch.
Instead, a tiny sigh escaped her lips.
“Why did you protect me for so long, Declan?”
“Before all of this happened.”
“Before you knew about Clara.”
Declan looked at her.
The firelight danced across her face, highlighting the delicate curve of her neck.
For three years, he had kept an iron wall between them.
She was his secretary.
She was innocent.
She belonged in the light, far away from the blood and filth of his world.
He had forced himself to be cold.
He had demanded perfection.
He had kept his hands at his sides every time she leaned over his desk to place a file.
“Because,” Declan said, his voice dropping to a gravelly whisper, “the first day you walked into Hayes Tower, you looked at me without fear.”
“Everyone in Chicago looks at me and sees a weapon.”
“They see my father’s ghost.”
“They see money or violence.”
“You just saw a man who needed his coffee black and his schedule organized.”
Norah looked at him, her heart beating frantically against her ribs.
“Declan...”
“You brought peace into my office, Norah,” he said.
His dark eyes were vulnerable in a way no other human had ever seen.
“And for a man like me, peace is rarer than gold.”
Norah set her teacup on the small side table.
Her hand trembled slightly.
She reached out.
Her fingertips gently brushed the side of his jaw.
Declan’s breath hitched.
He did not pull away.
He leaned into her touch, closing his eyes for a single, fleeting second.
Her fingers were warm.
Soft.
She traced the sharp contour of his cheekbone down to the corner of his lips.
“You saved my sister’s life,” Norah whispered.
“I would give my life for hers.”
Declan opened his eyes.
They burned with dark intensity.
“Don't ever say that,” he commanded softly.
“Your life is not a currency to be traded.”
“Not for your sister’s.”
“And certainly not for mine.”
He stood up, towering over her.
He took her teacup and set it aside.
Then, with an agonizing gentleness, he slid his hands beneath her arms and lifted her to her feet.
Norah’s breath caught in her throat.
They were inches apart.
She could feel the heat radiating from his chest.
His gaze dropped to her lips.
Her bruised, swollen lips.
Declan’s jaw hardened with regret.
“I won't touch you tonight,” he murmured.
“Not while you’re healing.”
“Not while you still carry his marks.”
He leaned down and pressed a single, reverent kiss to the crown of her head.
“Sleep now, Norah.”
He turned to leave the room.
Before he could reach the hallway, Norah spoke.
“Declan.”
He paused.
“Don't leave,” she whispered.
She looked at the vast, empty bed.
“Please. Just... stay in the room.”
Declan looked at her for a long moment.
Then he unbuttoned his vest, kicked off his dress shoes, and sat down in the heavy leather armchair beside the fire.
He unholstered his weapon and laid it on the table beside him.
“I’m here,” Declan said softly.
“I’m not going anywhere.”
Norah climbed under the sheets.
May you like
For the first time in eight months, she closed her eyes without terror.
She fell asleep to the crackle of the fireplace and the steady, protective presence of the mafia king in the corner.
