“For someone carrying that much fire inside here,” she whispered, “you must be holding something very, very heavy.”
The entire foyer went deathly still.
Alexander Blackwood stared down at her as if this young woman had just performed an impossible miracle. No one had ever spoken to Mason like that.
Mason raised his fist again.
Emily didn’t flinch. She didn’t move away. She simply looked at him with calm, unwavering compassion.
“You can hit me a hundred more times if you think it will put out what’s burning inside you,” she continued softly. “But I’m not going to run. And I’m not going to scream at you.”
The boy’s fist trembled in the air.
His lower lip quivered.
He took one hesitant step forward.
Then another.
And suddenly, Mason Blackwood threw himself against Emily, wrapping his small arms around her neck like a drowning child who had finally found something solid. It wasn’t an attack.
It was surrender.
A broken, desperate hug.
Alexander’s glass of whiskey slipped from his hand and shattered across the marble floor, the sound echoing like a gunshot.
Mrs. Evelyn appeared at the end of the hallway, her face draining of color when she saw Mason clinging to the new housekeeper.
“Separate them immediately,” she ordered sharply.
