The world narrowed to the frantic beating of her own heart and the terrifying stillness within her womb. Sandra lay on the chaise lounge in her sitting room, the cheerful floral pattern a cruel mockery of the icy dread gripping her. Dr. Evans's hands, cool and clinical, pressed against her swollen belly, his stethoscope moving with agonizing slowness. Paul stood rigid by the window, his back to the room, but Sandra could see the tension radiating from him in every taut line of his shoulders, the white-knuckled grip on the curtain fabric. Clara sat beside her, clutching Sandra's hand, her face pale, Alexander finally calmed and drowsing in Eleanor's arms across the room. The distant sounds of the accident cleanup – the scrape of wood, muffled voices – were a grim counterpoint to the suffocating silence in the chamber.
*Move. Please, little one, move.*
Sandra focused every ounce of will inward, pleading with the life she carried. The sharp pressure from the collapse had faded into a dull, pervasive ache, but the absence of the familiar, reassuring kicks and rolls was terrifying. She remembered Isabella's fate, the lost child Paul had grieved for decades. The fear in Paul's eyes when she'd demanded the doctor… it mirrored a deep, unhealed wound.
Dr. Evans adjusted the stethoscope, his brow furrowed in concentration. Seconds stretched into eternity. Sandra closed her eyes, her fingers tightening on Clara's.
Then – a flutter. Faint, hesitant, like a butterfly trapped behind glass. Then another, stronger push against the doctor's listening device.
Dr. Evans let out a slow breath, his tense expression easing fractionally. "There," he murmured, more to himself than anyone. He shifted the stethoscope slightly. "And another. Stronger."
A sob escaped Sandra's lips, relief so profound it was almost painful. Clara squeezed her hand fiercely, murmuring a prayer of thanks. Eleanor closed her eyes briefly, her arms tightening around the sleeping Alexander.
Paul turned abruptly from the window. His face was ashen, his eyes burning with a desperate intensity fixed on the doctor. "The baby?"
"The heartbeat is steady, Lord Barton," Dr. Evans said, removing the earpieces. "Strong. And I just felt several definite movements." He looked directly at Sandra, his gaze kind but firm. "You, however, Lady Barton, gave us all a fright. That was a significant trauma. The placenta… there are signs it could be vulnerable. Placenta previa, I suspect, exacerbated by the impact and your rapid movement."
Sandra swallowed, the relief for the baby instantly tempered by new fear for herself and the implications. "What does that mean, Doctor?"
"It means," Dr. Evans said, packing his instruments away with deliberate care, "absolute bed rest. Starting immediately. No exertion. Minimal movement. No stairs. No stress, if such a thing were possible under the circumstances." He gave Paul a pointed look. "The slightest bleed could be catastrophic. For both mother and child."
"Bed rest?" Sandra echoed, dismay warring with the lingering terror. "But Alexander… the household… the investigation…" Her mind raced. Blackwood was under threat, Mrs. Bell was grievously injured, and she was supposed to lie still?
"*Bed rest*," Paul repeated, his voice a low growl that brooked no argument. He crossed the room in three strides, kneeling beside the chaise. His hand, still trembling slightly, came to rest gently over hers on her belly. His eyes, when they met hers, held a storm of emotions – the residual terror, a fierce protectiveness that bordered on possessiveness, and a stark vulnerability she rarely saw. "You heard the doctor, Sandra. Nothing else matters. Nothing."
"But Paul, the scaffolding—"
"Is being dealt with," he interrupted, his voice tight. "Davies is overseeing it. My sole concern is you. And this child." His thumb stroked her knuckles, a gesture meant to soothe, but the tension in him was palpable. The Beast wasn't just protective; he was cornered, the safety of his mate and unborn cub threatened within the den he thought he'd secured.
Dr. Evans cleared his throat. "I've set Mrs. Bell's leg and arm. She's bruised badly and deeply shaken, but she's a tough woman. She'll recover with time and care. Now," he fixed Sandra with a stern look, "I will return tomorrow to check on you. In the meantime, you are to remain *here*. Is that understood?"
Sandra nodded, the weight of the restriction settling heavily upon her. "Understood, Doctor."
Once Dr. Evans departed, the room plunged back into a tense silence, broken only by Alexander's soft snores. Paul remained kneeling beside Sandra, his head bowed, his forehead almost touching their joined hands. The adrenaline that had propelled him through the accident's aftermath seemed to have drained away, leaving behind a profound exhaustion and the raw edges of fear.
"Paul," Sandra whispered, stroking his dark hair. "The baby is alright. I'm alright for now."
He lifted his head. The look in his eyes was harrowing. "You weren't moving," he said, his voice raw. "After the crash… you went so still. And then… inside… nothing. I thought…" He couldn't finish. The specter of Isabella, of the child lost amidst violence and fear, hung unspoken between them. "I cannot lose you, Sandra. Not you. Not this child. Not like…" He choked back the name, the memory.
"I'm here," she murmured, pulling his hand to her lips, kissing his scarred knuckles. "We're both here. But Paul, we cannot ignore what happened. That hook was cut."
The vulnerability vanished from his eyes, replaced by the flint-hard gaze of the Blackwood protector. He straightened, though he kept hold of her hand. "I know." He looked towards Eleanor and Clara. "Clara, please, take Alexander to the nursery. Stay with him. Eleanor—"
"I'll organize the household," Eleanor said, rising smoothly, her usual composure firmly back in place, though her eyes held a steely resolve. "Mrs. Bell's duties will need covering. Quietly. We don't want panic, but the staff needs to feel secure. I'll speak to Cook about meals being brought up for Sandra."
"Thank you," Paul said, genuine gratitude in his voice. He turned back to Sandra as the others left. "Davies has the hook. He's examining it now, along with the rest of the scaffolding and the site. He's also discreetly questioning the painters. They swear they checked the rigging this morning."
"Could it have been them?" Sandra asked, her mind racing despite the doctor's orders. "Disgruntled? Paid by someone?"
"Possible," Paul conceded grimly. He paced the small space beside the chaise, a caged predator. "But unlikely. They've worked for Barton properties for years. Reputable firm. More likely someone accessed the scaffolding last night or early this morning before they arrived. Someone who knew Mrs. Bell's routines, who knew the painters would be working on the chandelier today, who knew *you* often pass through that hall in the afternoon." He stopped pacing, his gaze locking onto hers, filled with a chilling certainty. "This was targeted, Sandra. The timing, the location… it wasn't random sabotage. It was an attack. On our household. On our sense of safety. Perhaps," his voice dropped, "on you specifically."
The cold dread Sandra had felt earlier returned, deeper now. Not just an accident, not just a disgruntled worker. Someone actively trying to harm them. Inside Blackwood. The sanctuary felt suddenly porous, vulnerable.
"Who?" she breathed. "Who would do this? Reginald is dead. Hemsworth is disgraced and powerless."
"Reginald had tentacles," Paul said darkly. "Men bound by money or fear who might seek revenge. Or…" He hesitated, a new, even more disturbing thought forming. "Or someone closer. Someone who resents the changes. Who preferred the old ways. Or who simply hates us." He ran a hand over his face. "The workers' village is nearly complete. We've displaced some interests, made enemies reforming the business practices. Or…" He looked towards the door, his expression unreadable. "Someone within these walls."
The implication hung heavy. A traitor in their midst. A servant, perhaps, nursing some hidden grievance. The thought was sickening, violating the fragile trust they'd begun to build.
Mr. Davies appeared at the door, his face grave. He held the broken hook, wrapped in cloth. "My lord," he said quietly, stepping in. "The metal. It's as you suspected. Deliberately scored and weakened. A fine-toothed saw, by the look of it. Done with care, to look like stress fatigue at a glance, but designed to fail under specific load." He placed the wrapped hook on a small table. "I've questioned the painters thoroughly. Their tools were all accounted for, locked in their wagon overnight. None show signs of recent metalwork. They are genuinely shocked and terrified."
Paul picked up the wrapped hook, the weight of the malice it represented seeming to bow his shoulders for a moment. "Secure the house, Davies," he ordered, his voice low and dangerous. "Double the footmen on duty. Rotate shifts. No one enters or leaves without scrutiny. Review the staff roster. Anyone with ties to my father, to Hemsworth, anyone who's expressed discontent recently – I want to know."
"Immediately, my lord," Davies nodded, turning to leave.
"And Davies," Paul added, stopping him. "No one is to disturb Lady Barton without my explicit permission. She is on strict bed rest. Her safety, and the child's, is paramount."
"Understood."
As Davies left, Paul turned back to Sandra. The ferocity in his eyes was tempered now by a profound weariness and a deep, abiding fear. He sank into the chair Clara had vacated, pulling it close to the chaise. He took her hand again, his grip firm but gentle.
"The world outside this room is my concern now," he said, his voice rough with emotion. "Your world is here. Resting. Protecting our child. Let me be the wall, Sandra. Let me stand between you and whatever darkness is scratching at our door." He brought her hand to his lips, his eyes holding hers with an intensity that stole her breath. "I failed Isabella. I will *not* fail you. Swear to me you will obey the doctor. Swear you will stay here, safe."
Looking into his eyes, seeing the raw terror of loss warring with the iron determination to protect, Sandra knew arguing was futile, and more importantly, unwise. The threat was real. The baby's life, perhaps her own, depended on stillness now. Her mind could work, but her body must yield.
"I swear," she whispered, squeezing his hand. "I'll stay. But Paul," her gaze sharpened, "keep me informed. Every detail Davies finds. Every suspicion. I may be confined to this room, but I am not blind, and I am not without resources. While I lie here, I will be thinking. I will be remembering. Someone made a mistake today. They revealed themselves. And I *will* help you find them."
A ghost of a smile touched Paul's lips, a flicker of admiration amidst the worry. "Always strategizing, my lioness," he murmured, leaning forward to press a kiss to her forehead. "Rest. Think. But rest first."
He stayed beside her, his presence a silent vigil, as the afternoon light began to fade. Outside the door, Blackwood was no longer just their home; it was a fortress under siege, its gilded cage transformed into a battleground once more. The veil of safety they had woven so carefully had been torn asunder. The hunt was on, but this time, the hunter was confined, and the prey was a phantom lurking within the very walls meant to protect them. The silence of the room was no longer peaceful; it was charged with the quiet, desperate tension of a family fighting for its survival, knowing the enemy might be breathing the same air.