Chapter 6 - Fire and Absolution
Graham broke through the shattered window frame like a thunderbolt.
He didn't fire his weapon; he threw his massive body directly over Claire, shielding her from flying glass as two of his tactical guards tackled Everett’s remaining mercenary to the floor.
“Owen!” Graham bellowed, sweeping his arm around Claire and pulling her up from the hearth.
Owen didn't run toward the door. He ran straight toward Claire and Graham, throwing his small arms around Claire’s waist, burying his face into her wet velvet dress, sobbing uncontrollably.
“Claire! You came! You came!” Owen sobbed.
Claire dropped to her knees right there on the glass-strewn floor, wrapping her arms tightly around the trembling eight-year-old boy, kissing his wet forehead over and over again. “I promised you, Owen. I told you I don't leave.”
Everett Sloan scrambled backward across the rug, blood dripping from a cut on his forehead where he had hit the hearth. He reached wildly into his jacket pocket, pulling out a secondary pocket pistol, aiming it directly at Claire’s back.
“If I’m going to hell, Graham, I’m taking your precious housekeeper with me!” Everett screamed.
Before Everett’s finger could press the trigger, Graham stepped into the line of fire.
BANG!
A shot rang out inside the lodge.
Graham didn't fall. He didn't even flinch.
His own custom pistol was already raised in his right hand.
BANG!
Everett Sloan’s eyes opened wide in shock as his weapon fell from his limp fingers. He collapsed backward onto the leather sofa, his breath rattling in his throat, his dark shadow finally erased from the Hawthorne family forever.
Graham stood tall, a shallow graze along his left shoulder dripping red onto his dark tuxedo, but his face was completely serene. He lowered his weapon and turned around.
He dropped to his knees beside Claire and Owen.
Graham reached out, his massive, trembling arms wrapping around both of them—pulling his son and Claire Morgan into a single, unbreakable embrace.
For the first time in eleven months, Owen Hawthorne didn't pull away from his father. He reached out his small right hand and gripped Graham’s collar tightly, crying tears of safety and relief.
“I’ve got you, son,” Graham choked out, his voice cracking with emotional tears he had suppressed since the day Natalie died. “I’ve got you both.”
Claire rested her head against Graham’s strong chest, feeling the deep, steady beat of his heart against her cheek. Rain continued to pour through the broken glass windows, washing away the blood, the fear, and the dark secrets that had haunted Blackwood Manor for two long years.
Owen pulled back slightly, reaching into his soaked jacket pocket. He pulled out the blue wooden fox—its chipped ear and cracked belly held together by a piece of black electrical tape he had found in the back room.
He looked at Claire, his small hazel eyes bright with pure trust.
“You didn't lie, Claire,” Owen whispered softly, holding the fox out to her. “You stayed.”
Claire took the wooden fox, holding it close to her chest alongside the boy and his father.
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“I’m staying forever, Owen,” Claire promised softly.
Graham looked at Claire over his son’s head, his dark eyes filled with a profound, eternal love that needed no words. He reached up, placing his large hand gently behind her neck, drawing her face close to his, and pressed his lips against hers in a slow, deep, life-altering kiss.
