Chapter 5 - The Warmth of the Shadows
By 5:00 AM, Declan was back in his private quarters above the Royal Street office.
The apartment was spacious, furnished in dark mahogany, exposed brick, and rich leather. A large stone fireplace crackled in the corner, throwing warm, orange light across the room.
Cersa was asleep in his king-sized bed, wrapped in thick silk sheets.
Her dark hair was spread across the white pillows, her face pale but resting peacefully now that the heavy painkillers Fontineau had administered had taken full effect.
Declan sat in a heavy leather wingback chair beside the bed. He had changed into a clean black shirt and dark trousers. He held a small glass of ice water, watching the steady rise and fall of her chest.
For twenty years, Declan Maher had lived in total isolation. In his line of work, attachment was a fatal flaw. Women came and went, but none were ever allowed into his inner sanctuary. None were ever allowed to see him vulnerable, and none had ever made him lose his calculated composure.
Until tonight.
Looking at her small, pale face, he realized how deeply she had embedded herself under his skin. She wasn't just a partner in a dangerous transaction. She was a woman of fierce, terrifying courage who had walked through hell to keep her word to him.
Cersa stirred softly. A small, faint groan escaped her lips as she shifted her position under the heavy blankets.
Declan was out of his chair instantly, leaning over the bed.
"Don't move," he commanded softly, his warm hand resting gently against her shoulder. "You'll pull the stitches."
Cersa’s eyes blinked open slowly. She squinted against the soft firelight, her gaze wandering around the luxurious, warm bedroom before settling on Declan’s face.
"Declan?" her voice was a faint whisper.
"I'm here."
"Where... where am I?"
"My home. Above the office. You're safe."
Cersa tried to lift herself onto her elbows, but a sharp spike of pain in her thigh made her gasp, sinking back into the soft pillows. She looked down at her bandaged leg, then up at his dark, watchful eyes.
"Marco Valenti..." she whispered, her brow furrowing with sudden anxiety. "His men... they were waiting outside my apartment. They... they said they were going to kill Petra if I didn't give them the drive—"
"Marco Valenti will never touch you or your sister again," Declan interrupted, his tone so steady and absolute that it admitted no doubt.
Cersa searched his face, her perceptive hazel eyes catching the faint dark smear of blood still lingering under his fingernails.
"What did you do, Declan?" she asked softly.
Declan didn't answer right away. He reached for the glass of ice water on the nightstand, helping her lift her head slightly so she could take a small sip.
"I settled the load calculations," he said quietly once she had finished drinking. "The Valentis are no longer a threat to the bridge... or to you."
Cersa stared at him, her heart doing a strange, fluttering flip inside her chest. She had spent two weeks believing Declan Maher was a cold, unfeeling crime boss who was simply using her to expand his empire.
But looking at him now—seeing the exhaustion in his dark eyes, the gentle touch of his rough hands, and the fierce, protective shadow he cast over her bed—she realized she had completely misjudged the man holding her hand.
"Why?" she whispered, her fingers reaching out from under the blanket to touch the sleeve of his black shirt. "Why did you do all this for me? I was just an asset."
Declan looked down at her small, warm fingers resting against his arm.
May you like
He didn't pull away.
"You were never an asset, Cersa," Declan murmured, his voice dropping into a deep, velvety gravel that vibrated through the quiet room. "Assets don't bleed for me. And I don't burn down cities for assets."
