Chapter 2 - The Soft Voice
Ethan stepped forward, his heavy tread silent on the plush rug. The sheer size of the man, coupled with the firearm in his hand, made the spacious nursery feel suddenly tiny. He raised the handgun slightly, a dark, questioning shadow passing over his rugged features.
“Answer me!” he demanded, his voice dropping into a tense, dangerous register that made Emma’s heart hammer against her ribs.
Emma didn't run, and she didn't scream. With a trembling, gentle hand, she adjusted the white nursing blanket, ensuring Leo was safely supported, keeping him close to her chest. She looked up, her gaze steady despite the tears beginning to spill over her eyelashes.
“Sir, please… look at him,” she whispered, her British accent soft, fragile, but carrying a desperate sincerity.
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Ethan’s gaze flicked down to the bundle in her arms. Beneath the white folds, Leo’s angel-faced profile was entirely relaxed. His tiny jaw moved in a steady, rhythmic pattern, totally undisturbed by the intrusion. One little fist opened and closed contentedly against the fabric of Emma’s uniform. For three days since the sudden, tragic death of his mother, the infant had refused every bottle, every wet nurse, and every formula, crying until he was hoarse.
Now, he was feeding peacefully, his small body warm and safe.
