Chapter 7 - The Sovereign's Eyes
Even pale, gaunt, and half-draped in a white medical gown with an IV line taped to the back of his hand, David Carter commanded the room with terrifying gravity.
He was in his late thirties, his dark hair slightly overgrown and falling across a broad, scarred forehead. His jawline was sharp as a razor, shadowed by a thick, dark stubble that he hadn't shaved in days. But it was his eyes that stopped me dead in my tracks.
They were the exact, piercing shade of stormy blue that I looked at every single morning when I brushed my daughter's hair.
When the heavy oak doors clicked shut behind us, David slowly raised his head. His gaze swept past me, bypassing me entirely, and landed directly on the little girl clutching my neck.
The air in the room seemed to freeze.
For a long, agonizing moment, neither of them moved. David stared at Chloe with an expression so raw, so stripped of its usual ruthless armor, that it felt like trespassing on something sacred and dangerous.
"Put her down," he rasped, his voice rough and deep from weeks of disuse and trauma, carrying the gravelly undertone of a man who was used to giving orders that empires bowed to.
"No," I said instantly, my arms tightening around Chloe protectively. "She stays right here with me."
David didn't argue. He didn't raise his voice or summon Marcus to tear her from my arms. Instead, he slowly, painfully shifted his weight against the pillows, extending a lean, powerful hand toward us. The skin over his knuckles was marked with old fading scars from street fights long before he wore bespoke suits.
"Chloe," David said softly, his voice softening into a register I had never heard in the years we spent together. "Come here, little one."
Chloe blinked, looking at the strange man in the big bed. She didn't feel the terror I felt; children have an instinctive radar for power, but also an innocence that cuts through fear. She looked at his face, and then looked up at me, seeking permission.
"Mommy?" she whispered.
"It's okay, baby," I whispered back, my voice trembling. I slowly set her down on the plush carpet beside the bed, keeping my hand firmly anchored to her small shoulder.
Chloe took two tentative steps forward until she stood right beside the edge of the mattress. She reached up, resting her small hand on the white quilt.
David stared down at her hand, and then slowly raised his own hand, hovering his palm just an inch above hers before gently, reverently touching her fingers. His touch was feather-light, as if he were afraid she might shatter like glass if he applied too much pressure.
"You have your mother's nose," David murmured, a faint, haunted smile touching the corners of his pale lips. "And my eyes."
"The nurse said my blood helped you," Chloe piped up, her childish bravery returning now that the tension in the room had shifted. "She said you were super sick, but I gave you unicorn blood so you'd feel better."
David let out a low, rumbling laugh—a sound that started deep in his chest and ended in a soft cough that made him wince slightly, pressing a hand to his bandaged abdomen.
"Unicorn blood," David repeated, looking up from Chloe to meet my terrified eyes across the bed. A strange, fierce light burned in his blue gaze. "Yes, little one. Exactly like unicorn blood. You saved my life."
"My mommy says sharing is caring," Chloe declared proudly.
"Your mother is a very wise woman," David said, his eyes never leaving mine. Then, his gaze shifted back down to Chloe. "Would you like to see something cool? The nurse left a box of puzzle pieces in the corner table. Why don't you go see if you can put the big castle together while I talk to your mother for a minute?"
Chloe looked at the colorful box on the mahogany table across the room, her attention easily captured. "Okay!" She scampered across the thick rug, leaving David and me standing—and sitting—across a very dangerous chasm.
The moment she was out of earshot, the temperature in the room plummeted ten degrees.
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David’s smile vanished, replaced by the cold, calculating mask of the man who ruled Chicago’s underworld.
"Eight years, Natasha," he said, his voice dropping into a harsh, controlled whisper. "You took my child, crossed state lines, and hid her in a sleepy college town where I couldn't reach you. Do you have any idea what I did to the last man who stole something from me?"
