chapter 54
Sebastian's POV:
She turned to face me then, those impossibly blue eyes searching mine.
"You promised," she said quietly. "After what happened with that waitress at Eden. You promised you wouldn't..."
"Wouldn't what?" I asked, though I knew exactly what she meant. "Wouldn't ensure that everyone understands there are consequences for touching you?"
"Sebastian." Just my name, but the way she said it—soft and pleading —made something twist in my chest.
"You're too soft," I told her, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "It's not a kindness, angel. Men like Bob Morrison see compassion as weakness. They'll take advantage of it every time."
Instead of arguing, she surprised me by burrowing closer, her head finding that spot on my chest that seemed designed for her.
"I know you're angry," she murmured. "But you promised me. No more blood on your hands. For the baby."
My hand moved automatically to her still-flat stomach, fingers spreading possessively over where our child grew.
The reminder should have calmed me, but it only made my protective instincts burn hotter. She was carrying my child, and that bastard had put his hands on her, had tried to—
"He'll be dealt with appropriately," I said finally, choosing my words carefully.
Bob Morrison would learn that lesson in ways that wouldn't leave visible scars but would ensure he never forgot. Because while I'd promised my wife no blood, I'd never promised mercy.
We rode the rest of the way in silence, but it was a comfortable one, filled with her warmth against my side and the steady rhythm of her breathing.
By the time we reached the penthouse, she was half-asleep, pliant in my arms as I carried her inside.
As I lay her in our bed and watched her curl into the pillows, a fierce surge of protectiveness washed over me. My fingers gently brushed across her forehead, smoothing away the faint lines of stress that lingered even in sleep.
When I reached to pull the covers over her that I noticed it—the silver crucifix hanging at the hollow of her throat, catching the moonlight like a fallen star.
My crucifix. The one I'd worn since childhood, the one I'd secretly clasped around her neck that night in the penthouse. She'd been wearing it unconsciously ever since.
The next day, when Grandmother had discovered I'd removed it, her sharp eyes had missed nothing.
"You gave it to the girl," she'd said, not a question but a statement of fact. When I'd nodded, unable to deny it, she'd only sighed—that particular sigh that meant she thought I was being reckless but wouldn't stop me.
By evening, she'd had Alfred deliver a new crucifix, nearly identical to the first.
I'd never believed in the protection that small piece of silver supposedly offered—wore it only to avoid Grandmother's lectures and give her peace of mind.
The whole thing had seemed like superstition, a crutch for the weak-minded.
But now, watching it rest against Elena's pale skin as she slept, I found myself hoping—praying, even—that maybe there was something to it after all.
I found myself reaching out, fingertips barely ghosting over her forehead, smoothing back a strand of hair that had fallen across her face. "I'll protect you both," I murmured, the words a vow in the darkness. "Always."
---
The days that followed held a strange kind of peace I'd never experienced before.
Elena's morning sickness had begun to ease, though she still moved carefully, as if testing the boundaries of her changing body.
I found myself canceling meetings, pushing back negotiations, all for the simple pleasure of being near her.
My board probably thought I'd lost my mind—Sebastian Vane, the man who'd built an empire on sixteen-hour days and ruthless efficiency, suddenly keeping banker's hours.
I was in my study, halfheartedly reviewing contracts while actually watching Elena through the open door as she worked on her perfume formulations, when my phone rang.
Adrian's name on the screen.
"Adrian," I answered, setting down my pen.
"Uncle Sebastian." His voice carried an unusual brightness. "I have news—I'm engaged."
The words hung in the air for a moment. I leaned back in my chair, processing this development. Adrian, engaged. After everything that had happened with Elena, I'd wondered if he'd ever move forward.
"Congratulations," I said, and meant it. "Who's the fortunate woman?"
"Her name is Charlotte Pemberton." He paused. "I'd like to bring her by today, if you're available. "
"Of course." I glanced toward Elena, who was curled up in a patch of sunlight by the window, drowsing like a contented cat. "We'll be here."
"Thank you." Relief colored his tone. "Around four?"
"Four works."
After ending the call, I walked over to Elena in the garden room, where she was taking advantage of the afternoon sun.
She'd set up a comfortable spot with cushions and blankets, a book abandoned beside her as she dozed in the warmth. Pregnancy had made her sleepy in the afternoons, a fact I found inexplicably endearing.
"We're having visitors," I said softly, not wanting to startle her.
She blinked up at me, still soft with sleep. "Who?"
"Adrian. He's bringing someone he wants us to meet."
Elena frowned, clearly trying to puzzle this out. "Someone we both know?" She tilted her head, thinking. "I don't remember us having any mutual friends he'd want to introduce..."
I watched as she cycled through possibilities, her brow furrowed in concentration. The afternoon light caught the gold threads in her hair.
"His fiancée," I said finally.