Chapter 14 #2
I straightened and walked back to the lobby.
Lena looked up when I appeared, her smile bright and unguarded.
She did not need to know about Viktor’s call.
Not yet. Let her have this day of normalcy, of reclaiming her kingdom.
Tomorrow I would increase security. Tonight I would check every lock, every window, every entrance to this building.
But right now, I would let her be happy.
She deserved that much. She deserved everything.
The afternoon passed in a blur of hotel operations.
I stayed close but not intrusive, a shadow at the edge of her bright world.
Staff came and went. Guests checked in and out, their luggage wheeled through the lobby, their voices a constant murmur of ordinary life.
The Christmas preparations began in earnest, with boxes of decorations appearing from storage and a spirited debate breaking out over whether the lobby should feature poinsettias or winter roses.
Lena settled it with a decisive “both” and moved on to the next crisis.
By evening, I could see the exhaustion settling into her shoulders. The happiness was still there, humming between us, but layered now with the pleasant tiredness of a productive day. She had worked herself to the bone and loved every minute of it.
“Time to stop,” I said quietly, appearing at her elbow. The lobby had grown dim, the October sun slanting low through the tall windows.
“One more thing.” She was reviewing a spreadsheet on her laptop, frowning at numbers that meant nothing to me. “The wine order for the holiday gala needs to go out tonight.”
“It can wait until morning.”
“It cannot.” But she leaned into me when I wrapped my arm around her shoulders, her body relaxing against mine. “Five more minutes.”
I gave her ten, watching over her shoulder as she finalized the order and sent it off with a satisfied click. Then I closed the laptop and steered her toward the elevator.
“Tyrant,” she muttered, but she was smiling.
The penthouse was quiet when we returned, the evening light painting the mountains in shades of rose and gold.
The last of the autumn sun caught the snow on the highest peaks, turning them to fire.
Lena kicked off her shoes and collapsed onto the sofa with a groan that was half exhaustion, half contentment.
“I forgot how much work this place is.”
“You love it.” I poured two glasses of wine from the bottle Marjorie had left and joined her on the sofa, handing her a glass.
“I do.” She accepted the wine and tucked her feet under her, leaning against my side. Her warmth seeped into me, her scent wrapping around us both. “I missed it. The chaos and the problems and the constant feeling that everything will fall apart if I look away for five minutes.”
“It did not fall apart. Clara held it together.”
“She did.” Lena sipped her wine, her eyes distant. “She is better at this than she knows. Maybe she should change jobs from banking to hospitality.”
We sat in comfortable silence as the light faded, the mountains darkening to silhouettes against the deepening sky.
Her contentment settled deeper through our bond, warm and heavy like a blanket.
She was home. Really home, not just physically but emotionally.
The fear that had driven her for weeks was finally beginning to fade.
I wished I could say the same.
“What are you thinking about?” She tilted her head to look at me. “You have been distant all day. Present but not present.”
I considered lying. Decided against it. We had promised each other honesty, and I would not break that now. Not even to spare her worry.
“Viktor called. They have not found Michael.”
Her contentment wavered, a shadow passing between us. “I assumed as much. You would have told me if they had.”
“I did not want to ruin your day.”
“It is not ruined.” She set down her wine and turned to face me fully, her eyes fierce in the dim light.
“I know he is out there, Raphael. I know this peace is temporary. But I refuse to let him take this from me. These hours of normalcy. This feeling of being home. He has already taken so much. I will not give him this too.”
Her jaw was set, her spine straight. The lioness, refusing to cower.
My wolf surged with pride. This woman was strong, defiant, unbroken by everything that had tried to break her.
I pulled her into my lap, cradling her against my chest. Her head found its place beneath my chin, her body relaxing into mine. “You are remarkable.”
“I know.” But she softened against me, her fingers tracing idle patterns on my chest. “When will it end?”
“Soon.” I pressed my lips to her hair, breathing in her scent. “Viktor is searching. The pack is mobilized. Michael cannot hide forever.”
“And when they find him?”
“Then I will end it. Personally.”
She did not flinch at the darkness in my voice. She had accepted this part of me months ago, the predator beneath the surface, the violence I was capable of when something I loved was threatened. She did not try to soften me or make me pretend I was something I was not.
She simply accepted. And loved me anyway.
The silence stretched between us, comfortable and warm.
Then she stirred against my chest and tilted her head toward the corner of the room, where her mother’s grand piano stood against the wall.
I had noticed it the first time I entered this penthouse, wondered if she played, filed the question away for later.
“I have not touched it in months,” she said. “Not since before the contract.”
“You should.”
She looked up at me, something uncertain in her eyes. “Play now?”
“Why not?”
She untangled herself from my lap and crossed to the piano, lifting the fallboard with careful hands. The keys gleamed in the dim light, well-maintained despite the neglect. She sat on the bench and let her fingers rest on the ivory, not playing, just touching.
Then the first notes of Debussy’s Rêverie drifted through the room.
It was nothing like the Chopin or the Rachmaninoff she had played at the manor. This was softer. Gentler. A melody that wandered like morning light through curtains, unhurried and peaceful.
I crossed the room and sat beside her on the bench. She did not stop playing, did not look at me, but she shifted slightly to make room. Her shoulder brushed mine with each phrase.
“My mother played this when I was sick,” she said, her fingers still moving. “She would sit at my bedside and play until I fell asleep.”
“Mine too.” The words came out before I could stop them. “Different pieces. But the same reason.”
The Rêverie faded into silence. She lifted her hands from the keys and placed one on my thigh instead, warm through the fabric of my trousers.
“Show me.”
I had been three when she died. Too young to learn from her.
But at boarding school, I had sought out the piano on my own, picking out melodies on a battered upright between the headmaster’s beatings, trying to touch something of her through the keys she had once loved.
I had no sheet music, no teacher. Just a desperate boy trying to remember a mother he had barely known.
I had not played since I was seventeen. Since the headmaster caught me at the piano past curfew and made sure I understood that music was a privilege I had not earned.
But Lena was watching me with those fierce blue eyes, and my hands moved to the keys before I could refuse.
The nocturne was clumsy. Halting. My fingers stumbled over passages I had taught myself in secret, muscle memory buried under decades of silence. But Lena did not laugh or look away. She watched my hands, then found a harmony line she remembered from somewhere, and added her own notes to mine.
It was imperfect. Broken in places, too fast in others. Two separate memories trying to become one song.
It was the most beautiful thing I had ever played.
“Come to bed,” she murmured when the last notes faded. “I am exhausted.”
I carried her to the bedroom, set her down gently, and watched her change into one of my shirts.
She always slept in my clothes now, surrounding herself with my scent the way I surrounded myself with hers.
The intimacy of it still caught me off guard sometimes.
The simple trust of a woman who had chosen to build a life with a monster.
She climbed into bed and reached for me. I joined her, pulling her against my chest, feeling her body relax into sleep within minutes. Her breathing deepened, slowed, became the steady rhythm of peaceful rest.
But I did not sleep.
I lay in the darkness, listening to her breathe, feeling her heartbeat against my palm. Outside, the October wind rustled through the trees surrounding the hotel. The building settled around us, creaking and sighing the way old buildings do. Normal sounds. Safe sounds.
My wolf disagreed.
He was pacing, restless, certain that danger was circling even though nothing had changed.
The silence was too complete. The peace too perfect.
Michael was out there somewhere, watching and waiting and planning his next move.
I could feel it the way I could feel a storm building on the horizon, that pressure in the air that warned of violence to come.
He was waiting for us to feel safe.
And we did. Or she did, at least. Her contentment hummed between us, deep and undisturbed. She had let her guard down, trusted that the immediate danger had passed, allowed herself to hope.
I could not take that from her. I would not.
But I would be ready.
When Michael moved, when he finally showed his hand, I would be waiting. I would tear out his throat and watch the light leave his eyes, and then I would return to this bed, to this woman, to this life we were building from the ashes of everything we had lost.
She deserved peace, happiness, a Christmas without fear.
I would give her all of it. Even if I had to kill to make it happen.
I pressed my lips to her hair and settled in to wait.
Outside, the wind picked up, rattling the windows. Somewhere in the darkness, Michael was planning. Watching. Biding his time.
Let him come.
I would be ready.