Chapter 3 - The Waking in the Tower
I woke to the sound of rain drumming against reinforced bullet-resistant glass.
The room was vast, paneled in dark walnut, warmed by a roaring fieldstone fireplace. I wasn't in the underground clinic anymore. I was lying in the center of an enormous king-sized bed in the master suite on the top floor of Blackthorne House, swaddled in Egyptian cotton sheets and a heavy cashmere throw.
A medical IV pole stood beside the mattress, quietly administering broad-spectrum antibiotics and saline.
Sitting in an oversized leather armchair near the bed was Caleb.
He was wearing his school uniform, his small legs tucked under him, holding a worn copy of an illustrated storybook. When he saw my eyes open, his face lit up with an unburdened, radiant smile.
"Mara!" he whispered loudly, scrambling off the chair and running to the edge of the mattress. "You're awake! Dad said you were sleeping because your superhero shield was recharging!"
A faint, trembling smile touched my lips, though the movement pulled sharply at the surgical dressings across my ribs. "Hey, little man. Are you okay? Did the bad man hurt you?"
Caleb shook his head vigorously, his brown eyes bright. "No. You jumped on top of me like a giant eagle. You were so fast!"
The heavy mahogany double doors clicked open.
Dominic walked into the suite, carrying a silver tray with a porcelain teapot, a bowl of clear broth, and a leather-bound folder. He had changed into a tailored charcoal three-piece suit, his dark hair neatly combed back, his posture commanding the room with effortless, sovereign grace.
"Caleb," Dominic said softly. "Mrs. Bell is waiting in the library with your afternoon snack. Go on."
Caleb leaned over the mattress, gently kissing my uninjured shoulder before turning to run toward the door. "Thank you for saving me, Mara!"
"Anytime, Caleb," I whispered.
The heavy door closed, leaving Dominic and me in the quiet room.
Dominic set the silver tray on the bedside table, pulled up the leather armchair, and sat down. He poured a cup of warm tea, handing it to me with steady, deliberate care.
"Drink," he commanded gently. "Your red blood cell count is still low."
I took three small sips, the warm liquid soothing my raw throat, before setting the cup down and meeting his gaze.
"You know who I am," I said flatly.
Dominic leaned back, crossing his long legs, his fingers interlacing over his knee.
"Corinne Vance," he replied, his voice smooth as silk and hard as granite. "Sole surviving heir to the Vance-Sterling Maritime Trust. Valued at four hundred million dollars before your family's estate was destroyed in an engineered gas explosion eight years ago."
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"Julian Vance was in the ballroom, Dominic," I said, my voice shaking with old, unhealed fury. "He wasn't trying to shoot Caleb. He was trying to eliminate me."
"He was trying to do both," Dominic replied, opening the leather folder on his lap.
