The White Cast Accusation

The storm made the villa sound alive.

Rain lashed the enormous bedroom window in hard silver lines, blurring the black garden beyond the glass. Thunder rolled over the roof and moved through the walls before fading into the deep corners of the master suite. The amber bedside lamp burned too warmly for the hour, pressing a sick yellow glow onto the wide bed, the rough wood flooring, the heavy curtains, and the closed doors along the corridor.

Lucian Vance reached the room without remembering the stairs.

He had heard Theo scream.

Not cry. Not call.

Scream.

He shoved the bedroom door open so hard it struck the wall and rebounded against his shoulder. His white shirt hung open at the chest, rainwater still darkening one sleeve from the terrace he had crossed after leaving the study. His long dark hair clung near his jaw. His blue eyes went first to the bed, then the floor.

Theo was on his knees near the bedframe.

The boy’s blue pajamas were twisted around his small body. His golden-blond hair stuck to his damp forehead. Tear tracks shone on his fair cheeks whenever lightning broke across the room. His right arm, locked in a white cast from wrist to elbow, was held away from him as if he feared it might turn and strike.

“Dad!” Theo screamed. “Dad, please, cut it off!”

Lucian dropped beside him.

“Theo. Look at me.”

The boy shook his head violently. His left hand clutched the bedframe. His right arm trembled in the cast.

“Cut it off. Please.”

Lucian held him by the shoulders, not too hard. He had learned after the fall that Theo startled at sudden touch, even from him. The cast had been put on three nights earlier after Theo slipped on the back stairs. Helena had been the one to bring him home from the private clinic. She had said the boy was exhausted, dramatic, frightened by pain.

Lucian had wanted to believe the simplest version.

He hated himself for that already.

“What do you feel?” he asked.

Theo’s lips trembled. “Something’s inside.”

Lucian lowered his face near the cast without touching it. The white surface flashed cold under lightning. It looked rougher than he remembered, ridged at one edge beneath the sleeve of Theo’s pajamas.

“What kind of something?”

Theo sobbed through his teeth. “It’s biting me.”

At the doorway, silk moved.

Lucian turned.

Helena Vance stood beneath the frame in her gold robe, tall and motionless, her long blond hair falling smoothly over one shoulder. The storm light caught her amber eyes and made them look almost metallic. Her hands remained at her sides. Not clasped. Not reaching.

Watching.

“This isn’t normal pain,” she said softly. “Don’t let him damage the cast.”

Theo made a broken sound and pressed back against Lucian.

Something in Lucian went still.

It was not the words alone.

It was the order inside them.

The cast mattered more to Helena than the child.

“Theo,” Lucian said, turning back to his son, “did something happen?”

The boy’s breathing hitched. He looked toward Helena, then away.

Lucian heard his own voice lower. “You are safe with me.”

Theo raised his left hand.

One finger pointed across the room.