Chapter 6 - The Night in the Storm
The blizzard outside raged through the night, howling against the eaves of the stone cottage.
Around ten o'clock, Jamie woke up coughing.
I hurried to his crib in the nursery. His forehead felt warm—not a high fever, but a mild winter cold brought on by the stress of the morning. He whimpered softly, reaching his arms out for me.
“Shh, baby, it’s okay,” I cooed, lifting him into my arms and rocking him back and forth.
Dante, who had been reviewing shipping manifests in the living room, walked quietly into the doorway of the nursery. He had taken off his dark vest, wearing only his white shirt with the sleeves rolled up past his elbows.
“Is he sick?” Dante asked, his eyes filled with genuine concern.
“Just a light fever,” I said, pacing the floor as I rocked Jamie. “He gets fussy when his throat hurts. I need to steam the bathroom so he can breathe easier.”
“Let me,” Dante said.
He walked into the small bathroom adjoining the nursery, turned the shower on high heat, and shut the door to let the steam build up.
Five minutes later, he opened the door, revealing a room filled with warm, soothing vapor.
I walked into the bathroom and sat on the wooden stool near the sink, holding Jamie against my shoulder. Dante didn't leave. He stood against the doorframe, watching us quietly.
The steam worked quickly. Within ten minutes, Jamie’s breathing slowed down, his small gasps relaxing into rhythmic, easy breaths. His eyes fluttered shut, his small head resting heavily against my neck.
I looked up at Dante through the soft mist of the room.
He was staring at me. Not at my uniform, not at my size, but at my face—his dark eyes tracking the curve of my cheek, the stray wisps of hair clinging to my damp neck, and the quiet tenderness in my expression.
“What?” I asked softly, suddenly self-conscious. “Do I have steam in my hair?”
Dante walked slowly into the small room. He stopped right beside my stool, leaning down until his dark eyes were level with mine.
“You are a remarkably strong woman, Penelope,” he said, his baritone voice thick with a quiet, undeniable sincerity. “Most people would have broken after what you’ve been through.”
My heart did a strange, fluttering flip in my chest.
“I didn't have a choice, Dante,” I whispered. “I had Jamie.”
“You always have a choice,” Dante murmured, reaching out his hand. He gently tucked a wet strand of brown hair behind my ear, his rough thumb trailing lightly along my jawline. “And you chose to stand tall.”
The touch sent a shiver straight down my spine—a sensation I hadn't felt in years.
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Before either of us could say another word, a sharp radio buzz echoed from the living room.
Frankie’s voice came over the encrypted comms channel: “Boss! We’ve got perimeter sensors tripping on the north road. Two vehicles approaching without headlights.”
