Chapter 4 - a crack in the armor
By two in the morning, the rain had settled into a steady drone against the glass. The mansion had five guest suites, but Charlee refused to sleep in any of them unless the bassinet was in the same room. To resolve the impasse, Mabel had arranged the third-floor nursery—a room that had stood empty, fully furnished and hauntingly silent, since Spencer had broken his engagement four years earlier.
The walls were painted a soft, neutral dove-gray. A hand-carved birch crib sat near the center of the room beneath a brushed-brass chandelier.
Spencer sat on the thick plush carpet near the crib, his back against the baseboard, his black shirt sleeves rolled up over his forearms. He held Dexter in his arms. It was an awkward, stiff posture; he held the seven-pound infant as though he were handling a fragile piece of artillery ordinance that might detonate if tilted three degrees to the left.
"You're holding him too hard, sir," Charlee whispered. She was sitting cross-legged two feet away, her eyes heavy with exhaustion, her small hands resting on her knees.
"I am not holding him hard," Spencer replied dryly, not moving a muscle. "I am supporting his cervical spine."
"He likes it when you rock," Charlee said. She leaned forward, her eyes bright with that strange, fearless warmth she carried. She reached out and gently brushed her index finger against Dexter’s chubby, fair cheek. "See? He's looking at you."
Dexter blinked. His gray-blue gaze shifted from the ceiling fixture directly onto Spencer’s face. The tiny infant mouth opened, gave a soft squeak, and then, completely unprovoked, the corners of his lips pulled back into a wide, drunken newborn smile.
Charlee let out a bright, musical laugh, clapping her hand over her mouth so she wouldn't wake Mabel down the hall. "He smiled! Look! He knows who you are!"
Spencer stared down at the infant’s face. For the first time in as long as he could remember, the icy armor around his chest seemed to give way, splintering under the weight of that tiny, fragile expression. Something ancient and fiercely protective surged into his throat, making it difficult to swallow. He loosened his grip slightly, allowing the baby to rest against the muscular curve of his bicep. The boy was warm. Real. His flesh and blood, living and breathing in the middle of a house that had been an empty museum for a decade.
Mabel stood silently in the arched doorway, watching the scene through the soft lamplight. Her hands were folded across her waist, her eyes shining with unshed tears. She had watched Spencer Warren bury his parents, fight off corporate vultures, and lock himself away behind stone and wire. She had never seen him sit on a floor.
Spencer looked up, catching Mabel’s eye. He didn't order her away. He simply adjusted the pale-blue blanket around Dexter’s shoulders, his scarred thumb gently smoothing the dark hair from the boy’s forehead.
"Tomorrow morning, Mabel," Spencer said, his voice quiet but commanding. "We need everything. Supplies, clothes, doctors, pediatric staff. The best in the state."
"I’ve already made the list, Spencer," she whispered softly.
"And find out which ward at Memorial has Charlee’s grandmother," he added, looking at the little girl whose head was already nodding with sleep against the floor cushion. "Transfer her to a private suite on the executive floor. Pay whatever they ask. Have Dr. Vance oversee her neurology consult personally."
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Charlee looked up, her heavy eyelids fluttering. "You're helping Nana?"
"I pay my debts, Charlee," Spencer said, his gaze returning to the sleeping infant in his lap. "You brought me my son. You will never have to worry about a roof over your head again."
