Chapter 3 - The Sanctuary of Beacon Hill
The black Mercedes SUV was idling quietly at the curb outside the hospital entrance, its dual exhausts sending clouds of white steam into the midnight air.
Callum opened the rear passenger door with one hand, carefully lowering Maeve onto the heated leather bench seat. He reached over her, pulling the seatbelt across her waist and clicking it into place with tender precision that contrasted violently with his massive, imposing frame.
He climbed into the driver's seat, pulled out a small black satellite phone, and dialed a three-digit speed code.
"Clear the third floor," Callum ordered the moment the call connected. "Move two team units into the perimeter trees. Lock down the iron gates. Nobody enters or leaves Blackwood House without my personal voice authorization."
He tossed the phone onto the passenger seat and pulled out into the empty, snow-covered streets of Boston.
Maeve sat in the back, her head resting against the cold window glass, watching the festive Christmas lights of the city blur into long streaks of red and green.
"You shouldn't have brought me back to the mansion, Mr. Vale," Maeve whispered quietly into the dark interior of the car. "If someone inside your house is a traitor, I'm just a target."
Callum looked at her through the rearview mirror. His dark hazel eyes met hers in the glass.
"There is no one inside my house tonight, Maeve," Callum said softly. "I sent every guard, cook, and gardener home four hours ago. The only people at Blackwood House tonight are you, me, and six men outside who have taken bullets for me in three different countries."
"Why did you send everyone home?" she asked.
Callum turned the SUV onto the cobblestone incline of Beacon Hill, the grand wrought-iron gates of his estate appearing through the falling snow like the jaw of a sleeping beast.
"Because every Christmas Eve, I spend four hours alone in the library," Callum confessed smoothly, the gates opening automatically as the SUV approached. "It’s the only night of the year I don't carry a gun, don't look at financial ledgers, and don't order people killed. Someone knew that. Someone expected me to be alone."
He parked the vehicle under the stone portico at the front entrance of the grand five-story brick mansion.
He walked around, opened her door, and helped her out onto her feet. Maeve tried to walk on her own, but a sharp spike of pain in her side made her stagger. Before her knees could touch the stone, Callum slid his arm around her waist, pulling her firmly against his side, supporting almost all of her weight as he led her inside.
The grand foyer was dark, lit only by the warm amber glow of a massive spruce Christmas tree standing beside the marble staircase.
Callum led her past the grand drawing room, past his office, and up the private winding staircase straight to the third floor—the floor that had been locked and forbidden for four long years.
He pushed open the heavy oak doors at the end of the hall.
Inside was a master bedroom suite bathed in warm firelight. A king-sized bed covered in plush dark velvet blankets stood against the wall, opposite a roaring stone hearth.
"This... this isn't my room, Mr. Vale," Maeve stammered, looking around at the grand room. "The staff quarters are in the west wing."
"You're not working tonight, Maeve," Callum said, setting her down gently on the edge of the plush bed. "And you're not staying in the west wing where the windows don't have reinforced ballistic glass."
He walked over to a marble cabinet, pulled out a velvet box containing medical supplies, and sat down on a leather footstool directly in front of her.
May you like
He took her bruised right hand in his, his large, warm thumb tracing the delicate bones of her fingers.
"Now," Callum murmured, his voice dropping into a dangerous, dark whisper. "Tell me everything that happened at the docks."
