The heavy oak door creaked open. Leo stood there, dressed in his pajamas, holding a glass of water. He had spent the night in the hallway, listening to the screams and the chaos, exiled by Beatrice for his own protection.
“You can come in, Leo,” William said, waving him over. “Come meet your cousins.”
Leo walked into the room with the solemn gravity of a state official visiting a disaster site. He looked at the twins first–Alistair II and Arthur–observing their red, wrinkled faces with clinical curiosity.
“They are small,” Leo noted.
“They’re early,” Malcolm mumbled, waking up and shifting Alistair II. “But they’re fighters.”
Leo turned his attention to the bed. He approached Victoria slowly. He stared at the bundle in her arms. Hope opened her eyes–dark, alert, and unsettlingly familiar.
“Do you want to hold her?” Victoria asked.
“No,” Leo said. He reached out a finger, tracing the line of the baby’s jaw. He leaned in close, his face inches from the infant’s ear.
“I will make sure you win,” Leo whispered.
William smiled, clapping his son on the shoulder. “That’s right, Leo. You’ll be a good big brother. You’ll protect her.”
Leo straightened up, his face impassive. He didn’t correct his father. He hadn’t promised protection; he had promised victory. And in the House of Croft, those were two very different things.