Chapter 4 - The Judgment
Fay looked up into the face of the man towering over her.
In the dim light of the corridor sconces, Rafferty Cain was terrifying.
The silver at his temples gleamed like polished nickel.
The jagged scar along his left jawline stood out stark and white against his tanned skin.
He carried the absolute, suffocating aura of a man who held the power of life and death over half the state.
She had to swallow three times before her vocal cords could produce sound.
"Miss Vanderpool," Fay said, her voice raspy and dry as autumn leaves.
Rafferty’s expression did not change, but the air around him seemed to freeze into solid glass.
"Celeste?" he said.
"Why?"
"A glass of wine was spilled during the reception," Fay replied, keeping every syllable neutral and factual.
"Her gown was marked.
She ordered me to remain on this stone until the party ended and she gave permission for me to stand."
"The party ended two hours ago," Rafferty said, his gaze dropping to where her knees met the marble.
"The guests are asleep in their hotels.
The catering trucks left at two o’clock."
Fay said nothing.
She simply looked back into his gray eyes, letting the silence tell the rest of the story.
Something ancient and violent snapped inside Rafferty’s chest.
He had spent his entire adult life surrounded by blood.
He had executed rivals in cold harbor warehouses, had ordered hits on men who broke their word, had burned cargo ships to enforce his authority.
Those were the brutal terms of his profession: blood for blood, respect for respect.
Cruelty toward the powerless, however, was something he regarded with savage, unforgiving hatred.
It was the trademark of cowards who hid behind money they had not bled to earn.
"Stand up," Rafferty said gently.
Fay attempted to obey.
She shifted her weight forward, intending to plant her right foot beneath her, but her legs had completely lost sensation hours ago.
The moment she relieved pressure from her left knee, a white-hot spear of agony shot straight up through her hip.
Her muscles gave out entirely.
Her body tipped forward toward the stone.
Before her forehead could strike the marble, two broad, warm hands caught her by the shoulders.
Rafferty dropped to one knee without hesitation, not caring that the floor was covered in dust and damp grit.
He supported her torso against his chest.
When she tried to find her footing again, her ankles buckled like damp straw.
Without asking, Rafferty slipped his left arm behind her back and scooped his right arm under the bend of her knees.
He rose in one fluid motion, lifting her against his chest as effortlessly as if she were a child.
"I can walk, sir," Fay gasped, her breath catching as the overwhelming heat of his body washed over her frozen skin.
He smelled of rich tobacco, cedarwood, and the cold midnight air.
"You cannot walk," Rafferty said, his voice brooking no dispute.
"Your kneecaps are locked from the cold.
If you try to bear weight now, you will tear your ligaments."
He turned his back on the service exit and strode deliberately toward the grand central staircase.
"Where are you taking me?" she asked, real panic breaking through her exhaustion.
"My daughter...
I have to get home to my daughter in the Bywater."
Rafferty paused on the bottom riser, looking down into her pale, desperate face.
"Your daughter will not have a mother if you freeze to death on my floor," he said softly.
"You will be warmed.
My physician will treat your joints.
Then my private car will take you to your front door."
He carried her up the stairs.
Behind them, down the long upper gallery of the guest wing, a brass latch clicked open.
Celeste Vanderpool stepped onto the landing, wrapped in an emerald silk robe, her platinum hair hanging loose over her shoulders.
She had come out to gloat, to see if the maid had broken under the cold.
What she saw froze the blood in her veins.
Rafferty Cain, the man who had treated her with cold indifference throughout their six-month courtship, was carrying the catering maid in his arms, holding her against his heart with an expression of ferocious, protective reverence.
"Rafferty?" Celeste cried out, her voice shrill with disbelief.
Rafferty paused on the landing, not bothering to turn around.
He tilted his scarred profile toward the shadows.
"Go back into your suite, Celeste," Rafferty said, and the tone of his voice made the heiress stumble backward into the doorframe.
May you like
"And do not unpack your bags in the morning.
My men will have them waiting by the gate."
