A/N: Thank you for the reviews! Thank you for the support! Now, the events are in chronological order, but if you would like to me to include the years, let me know.

KittyWolfM: Your question will be answered in due time.

Warnings: The first half of this chapter contains bits of torture.

"Hey love," Peter Williamson greeted his wife at the threshold of their home, kissed her on the cheeks before he hung his coat and hat. It was a tiring day at the Ministry – everyone in the department were working round the clock trying to hunt down Antonin Dolohov who had not surfaced since his breakout. It did not help matters that Corban Yaxley was still missing since they followed him to Winchester, Muggle London. To make matters worse, the department had, in very little words, blamed his team for the breakout which added pressure on his young shoulders.

"Peter, there is someone waiting for you in the living room."

Peter noticed the back of a man standing by the fireplace, and observing while his left fingers ghosted over the photo frames and trinkets on the mantle. He wore a black jacket and black pants, and simple black shoes. Peter frowned as he watched their guest slowly turned around to face him. The glow from the fireplace lighted half of his face, and Peter immediately felt the sense of protectiveness bubbling in him. He would protect his wife and son from their unwanted guest. He would protect them even if he had to pay with his life. He was the protector of the house. His hand dug into his pocket, and his fingers curled around his wand.

"None of that, Williamson," the unwanted guest spoke softly and his hand rested on Peter's hand. It was a powerful grip but what was equally impressive was how swift the guest moved from the fireplace to before them. Peter gritted his teeth and helplessly shook his wand hand, while the guest turned to Peter's wife. "If the missus would kindly leave us gentlemen-"

"You are no gentleman!" Peter snarled at the man who towered over him.

"-I would prefer to finish this quickly with as little resistance as possible," the guest curtly dismissed the wife and one look from her husband, she left the room without too much fuss. Releasing Peter, the guest retreated to the back of the room and began picking up two glasses and a wine bottle. Peter settled into an armchair but his eyes continued watching the man moving.

"What do you want, Dolohov?"

Dolohov settled in the love chair as he stared at the Master of the house calmly. Pouring wine, he pushed a glass to Peter before he toasted alone and took a sip. Setting the glass down, Dolohov dug in his jacket and placed his wand on the table before he leaned into the chair, allowed his head to rest on the couch, closed his eyes and crossed his arms. Peter glared at the indifference and arrogance of the Death Eater to disarm himself and relax carelessly. He pulled out his wand and trained it at the man. Just as Peter was about to fire a spell, Dolohov drawled, "Do you remember what happened on September 1st?"

"The day after your break out."

"That's not important," Dolohov replied lazily as he openly stared at the ceiling before he brought his attention back to Peter with the laziest of head movements. Thumbing his jaw with his right hand slowly, Dolohov hummed, "Winchester is my interest."

"Scoundrel! You will not hurt the young muggle born witch!" Peter roared as he leaped to his feet, and sent a red jet of light towards the black-haired wizard. Dolohov merely swiped the offending light with his right hand as if it was nothing more than a pesky flying pest. The spell ricocheted to somewhere behind Dolohov and broken glass echoed in the room. Peter sent another Stupefy to the calmly seated man who simply waved away the spell again.

"Of course, not now," Dolohov deadpanned as the next Stupefy went off tangent, and Peter stared at the Death Eater opposite him. How could Antonin Dolohov deflect such spell without his wand and without uttering a word was a mystery. What was the defensive magic he used to counter the Stupefy? Very slowly and carefully, Dolohov whispered, "What I want is the name of your partner."

Peter blinked twice just to be sure what he heard was real. His mind was reeling and he was frowning the more it backtracked. Dolohov knew that he visited Winchester with his partner on September 1, but how? Dolohov was there. They thought Yaxley was in the area, they felt his magic but he was not found. Could it be simply a case of coincidence that Yaxley was in Winchester in the same time as Dolohov was? Unlikely to be a simple case of coincidence; it was planned! Garry and him simply did not pursue because of the young muggle born witch… No! Was she an accomplice? Peter fell into his seat, shocked by the revelation. The little witch assisted them. She protected them… but why?

"You were in the shed! She protected you!" Peter groused as his face reflected the shock plainly. Sweat slid off the sides of his face, as his lips paled. They could have finished off Dolohov and Yaxley had they simply pursued instead of allowing that little witch to deter them.

"Strangely so," Dolohov murmured as his hands retrieved his wand from the coffee table. Tapping his wand against his arm, Dolohov walked around the table to look at the pale shivering auror. Sitting on the coffee table opposite of Peter, Dolohov lazily tapped his wand on Peter's knee and he sighed heavily, "I find myself in a situation to avenge her honor. Was it you who touched her?"

Peter stared horrified at the signature look of one of the deadliest Death Eaters. The sleepy look, and lazy and languid movements. Antonin Dolohov behind the bars was not the same as the Antonin Dolohov in front of him. That one was harmless, this was… lethal. Peter gulped and dropped his wand as he clenched and unclenched his fists. It was no wonder Fudge and Moody told him that he should not be fooled by the bars – the Death Eaters were dangerous. They were uncontrollable, untameable and insane but the truly powerful ones were still sane, and they were the much more dangerous ones. Antonin Dolohov was one of them.

"I…I," Peter stammered as fear choked him while his eyes stared widely at the bored man. His wife and son were somewhere in the house, and Merlin, help them if he got to them. Peter wondered if Yaxley was in cahoots with him, and was stationed nearby or was Dolohov operating alone? The Ministry had very little records about Dolohov's workings and Peter feared if the records at the Ministry were only the tip of the iceberg of the madness Dolohov had done. Blood was rushing, and a loud buzzing roared in his ears as Peter stared in the face of lazy arrogance.

"I didn't touch her!" Peter roared as his survival instincts kicked and demanded he did everything to save himself and his family from the beast; let his partner deal with the beast if it meant he was saved. He needed to save himself. Peter began weeping; how far had he fallen? To sacrifice his partner without hesitation in hopes to save his family. What happened to Aurors' Training which taught them that they were defenders and protectors of the Wizarding World by enforcing the Wizarding Laws?

"I know, little Williamson," Dolohov said softly as he stood over the weeping man and slowly thumbed the tears away, "So, tell me his name."

Brothers in arms, before blood. Brethren before family. That was the life and motto he chose for himself, Peter reminded himself. He was a Williamson, he would do good to both his family and his partner. He would be martyr for both, even if he had to walk the same path as his older brother. He would die for them, Peter vowed. "Never," he hissed and glared into the cool grey eyes.

Dolohov held the murderous glare for a while. Peter had the same blind courage as James, it must be the trait of Williamson. Fierce tears of defiance trailed Peter's cheeks and Dolohov sighed. Dolohov picked up Peter's wand, set it on the coffee table before he lied on the love seat while watching the young auror crying. Turning away, he closed his eyes and rested his wand hand over his eyes and sighed heavily. "Are you sure you won't tell me?" Dolohov murmured.

"Fuck you!" Peter shouted with all the bravado he could muster.

Dolohov sighed as he sat up, looked at the pitiful auror with the most jaded expression and shook his head slowly, "Must you really try my patience?" Dolohov walked over to Peter, pressed his wand against Peter's head and squeeze Peter's shoulder firmly as he lowered his lips to the shell of Peter's ear and breathed, "You brought this on." Dolohov gave the shoulder one final bone crushing squeeze before he patted it patronizingly and left the room.

When he returned, he brought with him a woman and a young child of seven years of age. Dolohov knew his lips were curling at the corners at the nauseated face of the auror. Dolohov turned to the woman and smiled thinly before guiding her to a seat near her husband while instructing the boy to wait on the couch. Dolohov turned the chairs to face each other, pushed them close enough for the married couple's knees to touch before he settled beside the boy.

"Don't involve them! Dolohov, please I'm begging you! Don't involve them!" Peter's cries and his wife's implores were blatantly ignored by the dark haired man.

Dolohov looked at the sandy-haired boy, tilted his head and asked curiously, "Do you love them?" Young Williamson nodded his head vigorously with a huge innocent grin on his face that told Dolohov how silly he was for asking such an absurd question. Dolohov chuckled mirthlessly as he humoured the active boy. "Do you want to help them?" Again, the boy nodded eagerly but a small frown was shaping nicely on his forehead as if he was wondering on the silliness of the odd man beside him.

"Excellent," Dolohov smiled as he retrieved a karambit from the bottom of his shoe. Twirling the weapon carelessly on one finger, he continued, "As long as your father tells me what I want to know, this will end. Every time your father defies me, you stab him." Dolohov walked over to Peter and stood lazily while he demonstrated to Young Williamson exactly what he wanted done. Gripping the hilt of the karambit, Dolohov stabbed forcefully into Peter's thigh and the auror roared in pain. Another loud scream of pain erupted out of Mrs Williamson's mouth as blood gushed out of the stab wound on her thigh – it was the exact spot where Dolohov had stabbed Peter. Dolohov left the weapon in Peter's thigh as he walked over to the missus and gently wiped her tears. Cradling her head, he moved her hair out of her face and looked down into her startled fearful eyes. "It hurts, doesn't it?" Dolohov murmured almost with mocking regret and tenderly turned her face so that they could see Peter, "Remember that face; he is the reason for your pain."

Painstakingly slow, Dolohov turned to the frightened boy and clicked his tongue. "Will you do it, boyo?" Dolohov asked as he deliberately looked from the boy to the blade and back to the boy, and ignored the pleas of the other adults. Young Williamson had started to cry terrified tears as he watched the blood dripping off the hem of his mother's dress and resolutely shook his head. When Dolohov curled his fingers to beckon the boy, the crying child staggered limply to Dolohov. Crouching to look at the face of the intimidated boy, Dolohov crooned into his ear, "If you don't cut your father, I will and your mother dearest will die painfully. Only you get to choose how merciful her death will be." Dolohov pulled the knife out of Peter's thigh and closed the boy's tiny hand around its hilt. Patting the boy encouragingly, Dolohov began to walk away only to see the blade protruding through the back of his palm and hear a duet of screams.

Slowly, Dolohov pulled the knife out of his palm and looked at the boy quizzically. "You really thought I'd let my tools hurt me?" he chided as he frowned at the naïve expectations of the boy, "Look what you did to your parents. I thought you loved them." Peter's and his wife's hands were both bleeding from same stab Dolohov supposedly had. Young Williamson's face was a mixture of horrified guilt and revelation at what he had done – his action had not backed his intention, instead it backfired terribly.

Dolohov returned to the boy, smiled wickedly and coaxed, "Look at me; maybe you need more… motivation." When the boy looked away, Dolohov grabbed the chin of the boy and cast a wordless wandless jinx to keep the boy's eyes open. Forcing the knife into the boy's hand, Dolohov closed his hand around the tiny fist and guided it into a forceful stab into his eye. Wails of pain, screams and begs for mercy filled the family room as blood poured and dirtied the chairs. Blood seeped and slid off the faces of the married adults, as a boy's continuous helpless cry burst into the room. Dolohov hissed as he pulled the blade out of his eye and left the weapon in the crying boy's hand. Without another backward glance, Dolohov warned as he returned to the love seat, "Don't make me angry again, boyo." He waved his wand over the family of three and cast a rapid-blood-replenishing charm if only to ensure they did not end his play before he decided its finale, then he lied on the couch and closed his eyes.

"A name, Williamson."

Peter looked from his wife to his son and shut his eyes as he bowed his head in shame. He could not protect them, and without his wand, he could not escape the immobilized jinx Dolohov had placed him under. Peter defied weakly, "Never."

"Cut him, boyo." Dolohov kept his eyes closed as he listened to the family choir as he moved his hands as if conducting an air orchestra. He was not interested in where the son cut his father, or truly what the son did. All Dolohov wanted was answers, and he would do whatever he needed to get it. There was nothing too horrifying and scandalous for him, if it meant his aim was achieved. The cycle of asking, defying, commanding, begging continued its loops and Dolohov was mildly impressed at the sheer will strength of Peter's family after the tenth cycle had ended. As everyone waited for the start of the eleventh cycle, Dolohov opened his eyes to look at the macabre scene – a man bowed in shame and imploring, a trembling boy with wild eyes who was covered with splattered blood, and a used-to-be homely woman writhing and covered in blood, and howling unabashed and undignified. Fingers and toes littered the floor around her, criss-crosses patterned her previously unmarked fair skin, her left side was haphazardly dug and torn until part of her ribs could be seen and Dolohov was surprised to see a rib or two fractured.

"Williamson, now, will you tell me?"

"Never."

Dolohov sighed as the auror selfishly and pridefully prolonged the torture of his own family. Just as the boy was about to stab his father, Dolohov commanded for the tongue to be removed. Wordlessly, the boy climbed the laps of his father, yanked the tongue out and brutally chopped it off. Dolohov watched the woman's tongue fly across to land at Peter's feet, and Dolohov watched with interest as the boy stared forlornly at the tongue. Dolohov looked at the auror who had swaggered in front of his prison for years, mocked and taunted him, and dared to proclaim how the bars kept the prisoners safe from the aurors. How terribly mistaken, the young aurors were.

"Last chance, Peter Williamson," Dolohov deadpanned as he sat on the coffee table while he watched the mixture of guilt, revolt and shame reflecting on the face of the young father, "Your wife has been begging. Won't you end her suffering?" Peter shook his head miserably, if only to continue to defy the death eater. Sighing, Dolohov shrugged his shoulders dispassionately as he looked at the boy, "Boyo, cu-"

"-Tell him whatever he wants!" the boy interjected as he begged his father while he knelt by his father's feet, "Tell him! Is that more important than mommy?"

"I can't, Dylan," Peter refuted weakly, "Oh God-"

"-There is no God!" the boy roared as he implored to his father, hoping to awaken some shred of sanity, "If God existed, this would never happen! Father, please… I'm begging you. Tell him."

"G-Gar-Garry," Peter whimpered as the boy dropped the weapon and Dolohov rose from the table, "Garry Collymore. Please, let them go."

Dolohov towered over Peter, his eyes indifferent and apathetic as he placed Peter's wand in his hand. "How the mighty have fallen," he chuckled darkly into Peter's ear, "You gambled and lost. Now, end them, Williamson." Staggering to his wife, Peter touched her face as the boy clutched onto her legs begging for forgiveness. Peter, with all the anguish and shame of the past half an hour, pointed his wand at each member of his family and uttered a killing curse before killing himself. Dolohov picked up his weapon, scourgified it and returned it under his shoe. Then, he pointed his wand at the dead bodies, stole and pocketed his trophies before casting a fiendfyre.

"I almost forgot about your interrogation skills," a blond-haired man sighed as he leaned against the frame of the main door, "Five years is a long time and not even Azkaban could blunt your creativity." He tutted and laughed when Dolohov deliberately stepped over the bodies as if conducting a silent parade of his superiority and victory over them as they exit the burning House of Williamson. "Things would have been a lot more different if he had simply given you the answer," Yaxley teased as he smirked knowingly, "You would've spared the missus and boy."

"No, it won't," Dolohov denied coolly, "he was a Gryffindor; they are foolishly and stubbornly prideful that way."

"She is a Gryffindor too," Yaxley snickered before he transfigured and soared into the afternoon sky.

"And you wondered why she lied?" Dolohov scoffed quietly, "Fatuity cannot be cured."

"Mistress, a man awaits," a house elf announced timidly as he kept his head bowed. His ears twitched every few seconds, while he waited for the lady's acknowledgement. The beautiful woman sat upright and regal in front of her vanity. Her voluminous black hair with blonde highlights cascaded over fair shoulders matched exotically well with her red evening gown that accented her curves and aroused suspicion of endless legs that hid under the flowing skirt. She epitomized classy temptation and elegance.

She rose and glided across the room to tower before the quivering house elf. A beautifully shaped eyebrow raised just slightly as she pursed her lips. A man, who was not her husband, was waiting for her? Surely, her beloved would have told her sometime early today before he left the manor; it was unlike him to forget reminding her of a possible guest. Picking her wand, she dismissed the house elf with orders to send word to her husband while she made her way to the parlor. Should a duel break out, she would fend the intruder until her husband, no doubt rushing back to her and their son, would return. She was not a simple witch – she was Narcissa Malfoy, wife of Lucius Malfoy and beloved younger sister of Bellatrix Lestrange and daughter of Cygnus and Druella Black. She was not a witch to be trifled with.

Innocent laughter that sounded suspiciously like her son's echoed in the corridor, and she found herself picking up her pace. Whoever their guest was, it was obvious Draco was acquainted with them and been introduced to as… harmless. No, no, not harmless but a parent's friend which only meant one thing – their uninvited guest was a Death Eater, a follower of the fallen Dark Lord. Only her husband's colleagues had the gall to thread into Malfoy's Manor uninvited. Narcissa frowned just briefly as she hazarded a guess for their guest's identity – there were not many free-walking Death Eaters who were cunning enough to evade Azkaban.

Turning a corner, she entered the parlor and saw the cheerful grin of her young son and smiled faintly until she spotted the back of a blonde's head. Her faint smile dropped immediately and replaced by a mask of cold indifference as she walked around the blond-haired man and intentionally walked in front of her son. The guest rose to his feet as soon as he saw her, and he gave her a polite but appreciative glance at her attire. "Yaxley," she sneered as she ran her hand through her son's hair if only to keep her hands from reaching for her wand, "what a surprise."

The violet-eyed man smiled widely and toothily as he took her hand in his. "Narcissa Black, what a beautiful witch," Yaxley hummed as he kissed the back of palm lightly before he released his hold and retreated to his seat, "As much as I appreciate your company, it is Lucius I seek."

Narcissa narrowed her eyes at the man as she not too gently, pushed Draco behind her as she slowly settled into a seat opposite to Yaxley. It did not go unnoticed that Yaxley would use her maiden name – the man had always insisted on acknowledging her and she had long given up knowing why he continued addressing her as such. She had used multiple tactics and employed different people to buy his answer only to be faced with no answer. She had even gone as far as to enlist Dolohov in her quest, only to be met with failure. After the series of failures, she had come to accept Yaxley did as he wanted, untameable, and there was no logical reason for his choice of addressing her. He was as uncontrollable as Dolohov.

Narcissa gave a quick kiss to Draco's crown if only to recompose her thoughts to the matter at hand. Whatever happened between Yaxley and her was moot point; she was still very much in love with Lucius. She breathed deeply as she rested her left hand on the son's head, just so she could feel him physically there. It was unthinkable to usher Draco away from the room, especially when Dolohov, who had escaped Azkaban, could be skulking the corridors of the manor – it would be expected of the ruffian. "Your dealings with my husband can be dealt with me," she said firmly while she counted the seconds until Lucius' return. There was no way she would be able to fend off Yaxley and Dolohov on her own should a duel erupt; there was a reason why Dolohov was one of the Dark Lord's most trusted soloist.

Yaxley frowned at her before he leaned into the chair lazily. Drumming his fingers on the arm of the chair, he relented and huffed, "I require your… husband to flex the power that comes coupled with his… position in the society."

Narcissa could not stop the bark of laughter that erupted from her. Try as she might, hearing Yaxley's confession was hilarious. "Who would have thought Yaxley the Harbinger would seek out a Malfoy for help," she mocked as her smile threatened to stretch into a genuine amused smile. It had been a long time since she had genuinely laugh because of someone other than her husband. Biting her bottom lip lightly, her right index finger rested on the corner of her lips while she tilted her head to the side to screen the seriousness of her guest. Certainly, Yaxley had been playful and lazy when he said that but there was no mistaking the undercurrent of seriousness.

"Surely, even your Divination would prophesize at least that much," Yaxley mocked and smiled cheerfully at the amusement that evaporated from his host's face. It was a secret she spilled to him once when she was tipsy and worried for her husband. He was pleasantly surprised when she revealed to him that Divination was a class she never did excel in despite her spectacular results in school. Indeed, a drunk's words are the thoughts of a sober's.

"Might I remind you that you're in my domain?" Narcissa bit as she glared at the presumably carefree man.

"Impeccable timing for a reminder," Yaxley laughed as he raised both his hands in a mocking surrender as he shook his head. Smiling knowingly, he slid his eyes to lazily survey the room and shrugged his shoulders, "There is something about this place – it makes me forget my manners."

The light twinkled in his eyes and Narcissa pursed her lips. She closed her eyes briefly while she combed her hand through her son's soft hair to calm herself. There was no need to be aggrieved with his taunts. When she reopened her eyes, she released a long sigh that she made certain he would know she was exasperated with him. "Where is he who created the recent chaos?"

"Who knows? I'm not his keeper."

"Not his keeper? Colour me surprised!" Narcissa gasped as she covered her mouth with her palm if only to hide the grin and smother the giggle that she felt in her throat. The darkening of those violet eyes was all the evidence she needed to know that she had effectively gotten under his skin. Turnabout was fairplay after all. As she battled to keep the smile from stretching on her face, she was almost disappointed and wary when the violet eyes lightened as if a storm had ceased brewing.

"My dear, Narcissa," Yaxley sighed as he crossed his arms and his lazy posture straightened, "be careful of your tongue." His eyes fixed her with a bored gaze that she knew meant he was moving away from his playful side. His eyes slowly moved around her face before they returned to her eyes and he whispered, "I'd hate for it to be the reason for your... sudden, shall we say, imperfection."

Narcissa straightened her own posture, and stiffened her back. It seemed Yaxley was finally ready to throw the gauntlets and it was a double-edged sword. A serious Yaxley meant he was finally ready to do business, and it meant he would not hesitate to kill if the proceedings got too cumbersome for him. "Believe me," she spoke carefully as she held his eyes in a steady stare. She had to thread carefully now, it was dangerous waters she was going through. "If I had my way, you would've been six feet under the porch." She would not cower and falter before him. He was still very much in her territory and she would make certain he would think twice before he threatened her in her own home.

"I won't put it pass you," Yaxley agreed as he crossed his arms, "Name your price, madam."

Narcissa raised her chin and looked down at him dispassionately. "Such arrogance," she hissed as her eyes met his violet ones, "Perhaps you need a lesson in lowering your head – beg me."

Yaxley closed his eyes and leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees as he hung his head. As he slowly released a long sigh, he opened his eyes to look at her from beneath his lashes. With his supposedly submissive stance, it almost looked as if Narcissa had all the power in the trade. It almost felt as if she, alone, would design the trade and he would willingly agree to her wishes. Almost… She, however, was aware of the man she was dealing with. Nothing about him was predictable and he was certainly not submissive.

"If that is what the lady wishes, I will not deny her," Yaxley murmured as his eyes slowly left hers to deliberately slide over to the young boy; before his eyes returned to hers, and he helplessly and ruefully sighed, "but someone will certainly suff-"

Narcissa had bolted from her seat, crossed the distance between them and slapped him across the face. Her hand was stinging from the slap as she glowered at the man who was looking up at her face. His face was impassive as if he had not felt the pain of her slap, but she smiled inwardly at the blossoming red blush on his cheek. "You will not touch Draco," she hissed coldly and protectively as she forced every word out very carefully, "you will not involve pureblood heirs."

"Only if you desert that price."

Narcissa narrowed her eyes down at the carelessness of the man. His lack of reaction was certainly a much more favorable result. If stories of him were true, Yaxley was not a man to be trifled with despite the usual façade of friendliness. She licked her lips as she settled for her price – it was a long shot but Merlin, she hoped he would agree to it. "You will protect Draco." He clicked his tongue as he looked at her and he slowly rose to his feet. Narcissa found herself just slightly shorter than his full height and frowned at the proximity between them. His breaths peppered her nose but she would not allow herself to react to that. She would not give him the pleasure of knowing he had made her uncomfortable.

"A mother's price then," he breathed softly, "Exactly what are your terms?"

"Should Draco ever be endangered," Narcissa kept her voice soft and measured as she continued to glare into those dangerous violet eyes, "you will abandon your position and forfeit your life for his."

"That's a high price you're demanding," he chided as his hand ghosted over the frown lines decorating her forehead.

"Do not pretend you did not know this when you came here."

Yaxley sighed as he dropped his hand and leaned his head until his nose was a hair's breadth away from hers. "Indeed, I am caught guilty," he murmured as he looked at her and finally relented, "One time, and only once, I will lay my life to protect him should he be threatened."

His warm breath assaulted her face, and Narcissa finally withdrew from him and turned away from him to return to her son. She did not have to look to know he was still standing in his spot and she cast a blood oath that bound them to their trade. Bending down to hug her son close to her, she promised him that she would ensure that Lucius would assist.

"I'm sure you will – someone who tinkers with blood magic as a hobby would be quite aware of its repercussions."

Narcissa would not turn to address him. As far as she was concerned, they had no reason to continue conversing – they had both extracted what they wanted from the other. Any more talk would simply be idle talk. "Your concern for me is cute," she sneered as she maintained her back to him, "but you would be wise to worry about yourself."

A period of silence came and past, and Narcissa felt a phantom breath on her nape. She was almost compelled to turn around but her sheer stubbornness and pride kept her back to him. "It was a hard bargain you drove – I cannot compete with a mother's ferocity – but it's not impossible to fulfill." After his soft admittance and his shuffling, she finally released a breath. Who knew when she had been holding her breath but she could only hope she had little to no future communication with him without her husband.

Please review. Has this chapter been what you expected? Let me know what you think.