Chapter 15
He paused, a dark amusement threading through his voice. "Tell him that I don't hide behind excuses. I took his finger because the bastard annoyed me. And he'd better keep his distance from what's mine."
"Yes, Mr. Smith." Leon didn't hesitate, turning on his heel to handle it.
What's mine. Jacob meant Elizabeth, naturally.
No matter how much suspicion he harbored toward that woman, how closely he watched her every move—on paper, she was fiancée.
And any man who'd had the audacity to touch her, especially some fool ex-fiancé sniffing around where he didn't belong, was spitting in Jacob's face.
Leon was efficient as hell. Two hours later, he was back, carrying an intricately carved sandalwood box.
"Mr. Smith, it's done. Per your instructions, Henry's left pinky finger has been repurposed." Leon presented the box with both hands.
Jacob flipped open the lid. Black velvet lined the interior, cradling a small, bone-white whistle polished to an eerie sheen.
Pale and macabre. Almost beautiful in its brutality.
A hole had been drilled through one end—functional.
Staring at the bone whistle, Jacob pictured Elizabeth's face. That perpetually calm mask, the faint sneer always lurking at the corners of her mouth.
What would she do when she unwrapped this little gift?
Scream? Faint? Maybe that icy composure would finally crack, and she'd tremble like the fragile thing women were supposed to be.
He could almost see it—her face draining of color, those sharp eyes going wide with terror.
The image soothed the irritation Richard had left festering in his chest.
Rattling her cage? Yeah. That'd be fun.
"Deliver this to Elizabeth." Jacob snapped the box shut and handed it to Leon. "Make sure she knows exactly what it is."
Windsor Estate.
Elizabeth had just gotten Jack down for a nap—the clingy little guy had fought sleep for an hour—and was about to dig into Nightfall's preliminary intel on the Smith Family when Nia appeared in the doorway.
"Ma'am, Mr. Smith sent someone."
Elizabeth's brow arched slightly as Leon entered, his expression unreadable as always, extending a small sandalwood box toward her.
Jacob sending me something?
She accepted it with practiced grace, murmuring her thanks.
Leon's smile didn't quite reach his eyes. "It belonged to Mr. Aiden originally."
Before she could respond, he was gone.
Back in her room, door locked, Elizabeth opened the box.
The bone whistle lay nestled against black velvet, stark and ivory-pale.
She froze for half a second. Then understanding clicked into place.
Henry's other pinky finger.
The idiot had managed to piss off Jacob somehow.
And Jacob, in true alpha-mobster fashion, had marked his territory in the most visceral way possible—while issuing her a warning wrapped in bone and malice.
Elizabeth lifted the whistle between two fingers.
Cold and smooth. The natural grain of the bone was still visible beneath the polish.
Her fingertips traced its surface—this grotesque little trinket made from her enemy's flesh—and instead of revulsion, a slow smile curved her lips.
Did he actually think this would scare me?
Poor Jacob. He was about to be so disappointed.
This wasn't a threat. This was a gift. A genuine, blood-soaked present that made her heart sing.
Henry had destroyed her in her past life. Two fingers? That didn't even cover the interest on what he owed.
This whistle would remind her. Every damn day. Of what she'd survived. Of what Jacob was capable of. Of how dangerous this game really was.
Elizabeth raised the bone to her lips and blew softly.
A thin, piercing note cut through the silence of her room—haunting and oddly melodic.
Her smile deepened, though her eyes remained winter-cold.
A monstrous whistle could still sing beautifully. And a dangerous man like Jacob could still be useful.
She found a length of black cord, threaded it through the bone, and looped it around her neck. The whistle settled between her breasts, cold against her skin.
Jacob, I loved this gift.
The next day, Elizabeth decided to bake Jack a cake herself.
She settled the boy in the living room's play corner, surrounded by toys, and instructed Nia to keep a close eye on him.
The second Elizabeth disappeared into the kitchen, Vivian saw her opening.
She studied Jack, where he sat cross-legged on the plush carpet, quietly arranging toy cars in neat rows. Calculation glittered in her eyes.
If I could win over the kid, it'll drive Elizabeth insane. Plus, Jacob might actually notice me for once.
Plastering on her sweetest smile, Vivian grabbed a fruit platter from a passing maid and crouched beside Jack.
"Hey, sweetie, whatcha playing with? You look tired. Want some fruit? It's super yummy." Her voice dripped honey as she speared a cube of honeydew melon on a fork, holding it near his mouth.
Jack glanced up. That look—flat, assessing, utterly devoid of childish warmth—was pure Jacob Smith.
He pressed his lips together and turned his head slightly, dodging the offered fruit. Then he went right back to his toys, as if Vivian and her stupid melon didn't exist.
Vivian's smile froze for a moment, and she cursed inwardly, 'You little bastard, just as ungrateful as Elizabeth!'
But she wasn't done yet. She leaned closer, reaching out to ruffle his hair, her tone turning syrupy with fake sympathy.
"Jack, you know... if you keep being so cold to your daddy, he might stop caring about you. And Elizabeth? She's going to marry your dad really soon."
Jack's hands stilled, just for a second.
Vivian's pulse quickened. Got him.
She pressed harder. "Once they're married, they'll have their own baby. A real one. And then they won't need you anymore. You'll just be in the way. A burden. They'll send you off somewhere, and you'll be all alone. Like a puppy nobody wanted at the shelter."
Jack's head snapped up. Those big eyes—empty moments ago—now blazed with raw, wounded fury.
His small chest heaved. He stared at Vivian as she'd just plunged a knife into him.
She felt a flicker of unease at that look but forced her smile to hold. "I'm just telling you the truth."
Jack moved like a cornered animal.
The metal toy car in his hand became a projectile. He hurled it at Vivian's face with everything a three-year-old could muster.
It clocked her square in the forehead.
Vivian yelped, clutching her head. The impact wasn't devastating, but it hurt—a hot, stinging throb that made her eyes water. A red welt bloomed above her brow.
Pain and humiliation detonated in her brain.
Vivian just got assaulted by a toddler.
From the time she was a little girl, no one had dared lay a hand on her.
Her hand shot out before she could think.
She slapped him.