Chapter 70 Act Of Surrender 2

Chapter 70 Act Of Surrender 2
Sable POV

For the first time since we moved here, the heavens opened, pouring down nonstop. The sound against the glass of the penthouse, a steady drumming that drowns out the distant city traffic.

Jonah had previously dropped off a cardboard box of pediatric supplies last night and because I had been so tired to unpack to see what it was, I left it until now.

Buried under the pediatric vitamins and protein shakes was a pack of wax crayons and a ream of blank printer paper.

I caught myself smiling at his thoughtfulness before handing them over to Sera who have been sitting cross-legged on the living room
rug for the past two hours colouring away without a care in the world.

She hasn't made a sound yet, but the fact that she was dragging colors across a sheet of
paper with a smile on her face gave me hope about her progress.

Her bandages have been removed, leaving faint, pink, healing scars along her forearms where the forced scales finally receded.

Drazen is sitting on the edge of the sofa a few feet away reviewing printed structure of the Undercourt's ventilation grid, searching for a blind spot in Carvek's new perimeter. He has a red pen in his hand, marking structural weak points.

I sit at the kitchen, nursing a lukewarm cup of tea, just watching them.

Just then, Sera stops coloring.

She sets the blue crayon down on the rug with a quiet tap, wipes her dusty fingers on her oversized t-shirt and stands up.

Drazen notices the movement instantly. He lowers the paper, capping his pen. He doesn't speak or try to stop her, he waits.

She walks directly to him and stops at his knees, looking up at his face before simply placing her small hands on his knee, stepping up onto the sofa cushion, and crawling onto his lap.

I watch him go completely still.

He is a man who commands armies and negotiates with hostile envoys and ruthlessly dismantles corporate monopolies. But right now, with a six year old girl climbing over his blueprints, he looks entirely unsure of what to do with his hands.

Sera curls her legs up, tucking her knees against his stomach as she rests her cheek against his chest, right over his heart, and grabs a fistful of his dark shirt in her small hand. She closes her eyes, letting out a long, exhausted exhale.

Drazen’s hesitation lasts only a second.

He sets the paper and the pen on the side table before wrapping his large, splinted arm carefully around her waist to anchor her. His other hand comes up to rest gently on the back of her head, his broad palm covering her dark hair.

He leans back into the sofa, adjusting his posture to make a comfortable shelf for her body.

He looks up and meets my gaze across the room.

The air in the penthouse turns heavy, charged with an emotion that has absolutely nothing to do with adrenaline or the Hearthblood. Maybe getting kicked out was a good thing. Who knew Drazen had a father bone in him?

I set my mug down and walk slowly into the living room. I stop at the edge of the rug and crouch down to pick up the piece of paper Sera left behind.

It isn't a detailed masterpiece,i mean it was drawn by a six year old with heavy strokes of wax.

There are three stick figures standing in a row.

The figure on the far left is exceptionally tall, colored completely in black from the neck down, with two yellow dots for eyes.

The figure on the right is wearing dark blue, matching my uniform. The hands on the blue figure are scribbled over with bright, messy orange crayon.

In the middle is a small figure in a gray jacket.

Thick, deliberate lines connect the small figure’s hands to the tall black figure and the blue figure.

Tears gather in my eyes as my throat tightens painfully when I trace the orange wax on the paper with my thumb.

I look up at Drazen. He is watching me, his chin resting lightly on the top of Sera’s head. She is already asleep, her breathing deep and even, anchored by the steady thud of his heart.

I walk over to the sofa and sit down on the cushion right next to his hip.

I don't say anything. Words would ruin the fragile peace of the room. I just hold the drawing out so he can see it.

Drazen studies the crude crayon lines. His eyes track from the orange hands to the yellow eyes, and finally to the small figure holding us together.

He exhales slowly. The rigid tension that has carried him through the last week of exile drains out of his shoulders. He shifts, leaning sideways just enough so his shoulder rests firmly against mine.

I lean into him, resting my head against his uninjured bicep.

We sit there, listening to the rain hit the glass.
The rebellion, Carvek, the Hunters, and the missing eggs all fade into the background. For the first time since I found him in the alley, we aren't fighting for survival.

We are just sitting in the quiet, completely bound to the broken child sleeping between us, accepting exactly what we have become to her,
and to each other.