Chapter 6 - The Christmas Feast
At precisely ten minutes to three on Christmas afternoon, the heavy iron gates of the Beacon Hill mansion swung open.
The black Town Car pulled up the driveway, its tires crunching smoothly over the freshly plowed snow.
Inside the second-floor guest suite, Maeve stood by the window, her heart pounding against her ribs as she watched Callum step out of the car. He wore the same dark wool coat, the same tailored suit.
He looked up toward her window. For a fraction of a second, his eyes met hers through the glass. Then he turned and walked inside.
Five minutes later, a soft knock sounded at her door.
“Come in,” Maeve called out, her voice barely a whisper.
The door opened. Callum stood on the threshold.
He had removed his coat. His white shirt was crisp, clean, without a single spot of blood or dirt. He held a small silver tray carrying a crystal decanter of red wine, two glasses, and a long-stemmed red rose resting in a silver vase.
He walked into the room, setting the tray down on the small table near the fireplace.
“You’re back,” Maeve said, turning from the window.
“I told you I would be back by three,” Callum replied smoothly, pouring a glass of dark red wine and handing it to her uninjured hand. “I keep my promises, Maeve.”
Maeve looked at the wine, then up into his face. There was no trace of the violent storm that had raged in his eyes four hours ago. He looked calm, rested, completely at peace.
“Is it over?” she asked quietly.
Callum picked up the second glass of wine. He walked over to the armchair by the fire and sat down, gesturing for her to take the seat opposite him.
“The O’Malleys have left South Boston,” Callum said, taking a slow sip of wine. “Their territory has been reassigned to Frank’s nephew. There will be no further interruptions to your schedule.”
Maeve sat down, holding the warm crystal glass in her lap. “Did you... did you kill them, Mr. Vale?”
Callum set his glass down on the table. He looked at her, his expression serious, unreadable.
“I protected my home, Maeve,” he said quietly. “And everything inside it.”
They sat in silence for a long time, watching the wood pop and crackle in the fireplace. Outside, the winter sun began to dip below the horizon, painting the snow-covered rooftops of Beacon Hill in brilliant shades of pink, gold, and deep indigo.
Suddenly, a low, rumbling sound echoed through the quiet room.
Maeve flushed dark red, covering her stomach with her good hand. She hadn't eaten since yesterday afternoon at lunch.
Callum’s lips twitched into a genuine, warm smile—the first real smile she had seen on his face in three years.
“It appears Christmas breakfast was delayed,” Callum said, standing up from his chair. He held out his bare right hand to her. “Come downstairs. Frank brought a roast turkey from the hotel kitchen, and I believe I know how to operate an oven.”
Maeve looked at his outstretched hand.
For three years, she had been the girl who cleaned his floors, who moved through the shadows of his life, who called him sir and kept her head bowed.
May you like
Slowly, she reached out her uninjured hand and laid her fingers in his palm.
Callum closed his fingers around hers—warm, strong, and protective. He didn't let go as they walked together out of the room, down the gallery, and down the grand marble staircase into the quiet, beautiful house that was no longer a solitary fortress, but a place where two lonely people had finally found each other in the dark.
