Total pages in book: 42
Estimated words: 38942 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 195(@200wpm)___ 156(@250wpm)___ 130(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 38942 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 195(@200wpm)___ 156(@250wpm)___ 130(@300wpm)
Impressive, for a civilian.
"I don't understand," she says, her voice steadier than most would manage under the circumstances. "Why would anyone want to hurt me?"
"Because of who you are. Who your brother was." I keep my voice neutral, factual. "And when he...disappeared, someone had to take over his business interests. But now that your identity has been leaked? It's possible some may think of you as his rightful heir."
She looks at the letter again, her delicate brows drawn together. "I make wax seals for wedding invitations. I'm not exactly crime lord material."
"Intent is irrelevant. Your blood is what matters to famiglia." I move toward the window, checking the street again out of habit. "The fact that Viktor kept you hidden, protected your identity all these years—it suggests importance. Value. Those who knew him well understand that."
"So what happens now?" Her fingers trace the broken wax seal on the envelope, a craftsman's appreciation evident even in her distress.
"Now I do what I promised your brother I would do." I turn back to her. "I keep you safe."
"How?"
A fair question. One without simple answers.
"First, I stay close. No one makes a move while I'm with you." I glance around her shop, this peaceful haven she's created that will never be the same. "We maintain normal appearances while I assess the immediate threat level. Then we make arrangements for more permanent protection."
Her hands, so steady while working her craft, tremble slightly now. But her chin lifts, a quiet determination in her posture. "And if I refuse? If I decide this is all insanity and ask you to leave?"
"They'll still come for you." No point softening this truth. "Only difference is, you'll face them alone."
She absorbs this, her gaze dropping to her workbench where tools and wax await her return. Her world—small, contained, carefully built—shattering around her through no fault of her own.
"I need time," she says finally. "To think. To process this."
"Time is the one thing in short supply." I step closer, needing her to understand the gravity of her situation. "The fact that I received this warning means others already know about you. Every hour increases the risk."
She looks up at me, a flash of stubborn pride in her eyes. "One day. Give me one day to wrap my head around all of this before you upend my entire life."
I should refuse. Security protocols dictate immediate extraction to a controlled environment. But something in her steady gaze makes me reconsider. Breaking her spirit serves no purpose—and Viktor would expect me to protect more than just her physical body.
"Until tomorrow morning," I concede. "But I stay with you. Where you go, I go."
"Like a shadow."
"Like a shield." I correct her, holding her gaze. "Between you and whatever comes."
Something shifts in her expression—surprise, perhaps, at my willingness to compromise. Or maybe at the intensity of my protection. Either way, she nods slowly.
"Fine. But I have clients scheduled all afternoon. I can't just—"
"Maintain normal operations," I agree. "I'll position myself as a business consultant. It explains my presence without raising questions."
She eyes me skeptically. "No one will believe you're interested in wax seals."
"They'll believe I'm interested in you." The words come out more suggestively than intended, and I watch color rise to her cheeks. "Professionally speaking."
The blush deepens, but she recovers quickly. "Right. Well. I should get back to work then."
She returns to her bench, but her earlier focus is gone. Her hands move less confidently, her attention repeatedly drifting to where I stand watching the street. The honeybee seal she attempts twice before setting it aside in frustration.
"I can't work with you staring at me," she says, not looking up.
"I'm not staring at you. I'm surveilling the street."
"Well, your surveillance is very... present."
I suppress a smile. Most people become meek in my presence, especially after learning what I am, what I've done. This woman—this civilian artisan with delicate hands and hazel eyes—speaks to me with unvarnished honesty instead.
Fascinating.
"I'll make myself less obtrusive," I offer, moving to a corner where I can still see both the street and her, but am less directly in her line of sight.
She mumbles a thank you and returns to her work, visibly trying to recapture her earlier concentration. I observe as she selects a different project—something simpler, with clean lines rather than the intricate honeybee design she'd abandoned.
Her movements grow more confident again as she loses herself in the familiar rhythm of her craft. Heat the wax, test the temperature, pour with precise timing, press the seal with just the right pressure. Each step performed with a reverence that speaks of true vocation rather than mere occupation.
I've known artists before—painters, sculptors, musicians. All obsessives in their way, all chasing perfection in their chosen medium. But there's something different about her work—something intimate and tactile, a direct connection between her hands and the material she shapes.