chapter 7

Damien Blackwell sat in the dim glow of the dying embers, his thoughts weighed heavy with the predicament he now found himself in. The child, now sleeping soundly in the arms of an equally oblivious Kara Winter, was no doubt a complication of the highest order. He had spent his entire life upholding decorum, a model of restraint and discipline—yet here he was, harboring an unmarried woman and an infant under his roof.

His family would not be pleased.

He exhaled sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose. There was no denying that the baby could not be cast away. And even if Kara insisted upon taking full responsibility, it was neither safe nor appropriate for a woman alone to bear such a burden. Society would be merciless.

A solution had to be devised.

As his gaze fell upon the child’s peaceful expression, an idea began to form in his mind. If he were to claim the child as his own, an explanation would be necessary—one that even his family could not refute. His mind wandered to his late friend, Lord Edwin Sinclair, who had perished last winter. Edwin had left behind no heir, nor had his widow survived the cruel season. Would it be so unreasonable to claim that, in his final hours, Edwin had entrusted him with his son’s welfare? It was not wholly dishonest; Damien had, in truth, respected Edwin immensely.

Yes, it was a plausible account—one his family could neither question nor protest.

His decision made, he allowed a semblance of ease to settle over his mind. His body, however, would find no such comfort. The small wooden couch at the far end of his chamber was hardly suitable for a man of his stature, but it would have to suffice. With a weary sigh, he removed his glasses, setting them carefully upon the nearby table before reclining as best as he could, arms crossed over his chest, eyes closing in resignation. Tomorrow, duty would call, and as the proprietor and professor of his family’s institution, he could not afford to be careless.

Sleep found him at last, albeit briefly.

~

The first hints of dawn had barely kissed the sky when Damien stirred from his restless slumber. The chill of the morning air did little to alleviate his discomfort as he sat up, rubbing the stiffness from his neck.

His gaze instinctively fell upon the bed.

Kara was still deep in slumber, her breathing even and soft. A few strands of her long, silky hair had tumbled over her face, shifting slightly with each breath. The child, swaddled securely, remained undisturbed beside her.

A strange sensation settled in his chest.

It was an unsettling sight—one that, for all intents and purposes, mirrored a domestic scene of wedded life. A wife, a child, and a home.

He scoffed at the thought, shaking his head.

Yet, for all his objections, there was no longer that same lingering irritation when he looked at Kara.

Once, she had been nothing but an unruly disruption to his carefully cultivated world—reckless, improper, and wholly exasperating. But now…

Now, he did not find her presence quite so intolerable.

Frowning at his own thoughts, he stepped forward, nudging Kara’s shoulder lightly.

"Miss Winter," he called in a hushed but firm tone. "It would be in your best interest to rouse yourself before the household awakens."

She made no response.

Damien sighed, trying again, this time with a bit more urgency. "Kara, wake up. You cannot afford to be found here at this hour."

Nothing.

Growing impatient, he reached out to shake her by the shoulder when, without warning, she moved.

And then—

Before he could process what was happening, Kara’s arms wrapped around him, pulling him forward as though he were nothing more than an overgrown pillow.

Then, she kissed him.

Or at least, something akin to it.

Her lips brushed against the corner of his mouth—a lazy, unintentional movement, carried out in the dazed, half-conscious state of slumber.

Damien froze.

His first instinct was to recoil, but the moment he attempted to withdraw, her grip tightened.

“Plushie…” Kara murmured, burying her face against his chest.

Plushie?

Damien had endured many indignities in his life, but this was testing his limits.

Struggling to maintain some semblance of composure, he cast a glance at the child, ensuring that their unintended display of absurdity had not caused distress. The infant remained blissfully unaware, nestled safely between the sheets.

He exhaled sharply, tilting his head toward the ceiling in sheer exasperation.

"This is insufferable," he muttered.

With careful precision, he maneuvered himself out of Kara’s hold, ensuring she did not wake. Once free, he took a step back, rubbing his temples. As he did so, he removed his glasses and set them on the table, the motion unintentionally accentuating the sharp angles of his face, lending him an air of effortless allure.

I should have let her freeze outside, he thought grimly.

But even as he attempted to convince himself of his own displeasure, he could not ignore the lingering warmth where her lips had touched his skin.

Frustrated, he turned toward the door, pressing his fingers to his temple.

This was not how he had envisioned his morning.

And yet, for reasons he could not yet understand, he did not feel wholly opposed to it.**

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