Chapter 2 - The Lapel in His Hand
Ethan lifted Emma gently, supporting her back as he pulled her up from the cold stone floor. She collapsed instantly against his broad chest, her hand clutching the lapel of his tailored jacket with a grip so tight her knuckles turned white. Her body shook with heavy, ragged sobs as she buried her face into his shoulder, her voice broken and barely audible over the murmur of the crowd.
“They tried to hurt our baby,” she whispered, her words soaking into his shirt.
Ethan held her securely against him, his broad hand cradling the back of her head as he absorbed her trembling weight. His face, usually a mask of controlled composure, transformed into something far darker. His jaw tightened until the muscles flexed, his eyes hardening into shards of dark ice as he absorbed the sight of the bruised cheek and torn silk.
May you like
Eleanor remained seated against the fractured wall panel, one hand pressed to her bruised ribs as she struggled to pull air back into her lungs. The arrogance that usually defined her aristocratic posture had fractured, replaced by sheer shock that anyone in this house had dared to touch her. She glared at Ethan, expecting him to back down under the weight of her authority, but the man looking down at her was no longer interested in etiquette or rules.
Slowly, carefully, Ethan lifted Emma in his arms, ensuring every movement was smooth and painless for her. He carried her away from the center of the hall, walking past the frozen guests toward a plush upholstered bench near the edge of the grand staircase. He set her down gently, brushing a damp lock of chestnut hair away from her face, his thumb softly touching the edge of her bruised cheekbone before he turned back toward the center of the room.
