Chapter 164
Sawyer nodded. "Of course. I told you, I would never hurt him."
The room was on the third floor, big and surprisingly cozy. Cream-colored walls, pale hardwood floors, and a wide four-poster bed made up with a thick down comforter. A pot of trailing green ivy sat on the windowsill, and sunlight poured in through the floor-to-ceiling windows, warming the whole room.
Elizabeth stood at the window, looking out. In the distance, low hills rolled toward the horizon; closer in lay a manicured garden, and in the middle of it a fountain, the water murmuring as it fell.
Sawyer stayed by the door, not stepping inside. "Take a shower first, change your clothes. There are things in the closet. I had them brought in. I don't know if they're the right size."
Elizabeth turned around and looked at him. "Sawyer, is Jack really here?"
"He is." Sawyer's mouth curved slightly. "If I give you my word, I keep it. Rest first. I'll have someone come get you later."
He closed the door behind him and left.
Elizabeth stayed where she was, listening to his footsteps fade away down the hall, and a wave of emotion she couldn't quite name rose up in her chest.
She walked to the closet and opened it. Inside, the rail was full of clothes, everything from everyday casuals to formal dresses, from underwear to coats, all of it there and waiting, and every size was exactly right. She picked one up and checked the tag. It was the brand she usually wore.
She let out a bitter little laugh. How much time and effort had this man really put into her?
An hour later, someone knocked on the door. It was a middle‑aged housekeeper, courteous, her tone gentle. "Ms. Windsor, Mr. Scott would like you to come to the dining room."
Elizabeth followed her downstairs. The dining room was on the first floor, very large, with a long table that could seat twenty, but only two places had been set. Sawyer sat at the head. When he saw her come in, he stood, walked over, and pulled out her chair.
"Sit."
Elizabeth sat and glanced over the dishes spread across the table, all of which were things she liked to eat.
Sawyer sat opposite her and ladled a bowl of soup for her. "Try it, see if it works for you. The chef's from Mirandia, brought in just for this. They say he's pretty good."
Elizabeth lifted the bowl and take a sip.
Not too salty or bland, and perfectly cooked.
"Good?" Sawyer asked, and there was actually a flicker of anticipation in his eyes.
Elizabeth nodded. "It's good."
Sawyer smiled, a smile with the simple satisfaction of a kid who'd finally done something right. "Then have some more. You're too thin."
Elizabeth lowered her head and drank the soup spoonful by spoonful. The steam rising from it blurred her vision.
After dinner, Sawyer took her to see Jack.
Jack was settled in the opposite wing of the castle, where there was a small playroom padded with foam mats and overflowing with toys.
When Elizabeth pushed the door open, Jack was on the floor building with blocks, a young nanny sitting beside him, coaching him in a soft voice.
At the sound of the door, Jack looked up. The second he saw Elizabeth, his eyes lit up. He tossed the blocks aside and ran toward her. "Mom!"
Elizabeth crouched down and caught his small body. He was so light, so little, warm in her arms like a ball of cotton. Her tears started falling again.
"Mommy, do not cry." Jack stretched out his tiny hand and clumsily wiped at her cheeks. "Mommy, don't cry."
Elizabeth hugged him tight and murmured in his ear, "Mommy isn't crying. Mommy's just really, really happy."
Jack rubbed against her, and in a sweet, childlike voice said, "Jack missed Mommy too."
Sawyer stood in the doorway, watching, the corner of his mouth lifting in a faint smile. He didn't interrupt. He closed the door quietly and walked away.
That night, Elizabeth stayed with Jack for dinner, tucked him in, and soothed him to sleep. Then the housekeeper took her back to her own room. The lights there had already been dimmed. On the nightstand sat a mug of warm milk and, beside it, a book—the same one she had flipped through at the airport bookstore last time.
Elizabeth picked up the book and opened it, only to find a slip of paper inside. On it was Sawyer's handwriting, sharp and a little messy: [Good night, Elizabeth.]
Elizabeth stared at the note for a long time without moving. Then she folded it carefully and slipped it under her pillow.
In the days that followed, Sawyer treated Elizabeth so well it bordered on unreal.
He had breakfast with her every morning, personally pouring her milk and spreading jam on her toast. He walked her through the castle, telling her the story behind every room, the history of every painting. He had people bring back stacks of the latest fashion magazines from the city and filled her shelves with them. He even had a glasshouse built out in the garden and filled it with white roses, her favorite.
"Back when your grandfather worked for the Scott family, white roses were his favorite thing to grow," he said. "I had them transplant a few of his old plants over. Look—same variety, right?"
Elizabeth stared at the tight white buds, a tangle of feelings twisting through her.
"Sawyer," she asked, "why are you so good to me?"
Sawyer was in the middle of trimming a stem. At her question, he paused and looked at her. "Because you're my sister."
"That's it?"
"That's it." He lowered his gaze again and want on pruning.
Elizabeth didn't say anything else.
She truly did not trust him. But she had to admit, the way Sawyer took care of her was so intense it was frightening.
He remembered every single thing she liked, knew all her little habits, could even state, without hesitation, what had happened to her when she was eighteen.
How could he possibly know that much?
Unless he had been watching her, digging into her life, for a very, very long time.
The thought sent a chill across her skin.
Every now and then, Sawyer would bring up Jacob. Not in any formal conversation, but in small talk, as if off hand .
"I heard Jacob's doing pretty well lately. He took over most of Vincent's territory. The Parker family's bowed to him too. He's basically the real shot‑caller in Mirandia's underworld now." He paused, the corner of his mouth lifting in that faint smile. "Jacob's impressive."
Elizabeth was reading. At his words, she looked up, her expression almost blank. "That has nothing to do with me."
Sawyer studied her, his eyes probing. "Really nothing?"
"He cost me my child for all those years. You think I could still care about him?" Elizabeth's voice was as calm as if she were talking about someone else's life. "Sawyer, I hate him."
Sawyer was quiet for a beat, then he smiled. There was a strange kind of satisfaction in it. "Good. You should hate him. He doesn't deserve you."
He walked over to her and crouched so their eyes were level. "Elizabeth, remember one thing. Jacob can have as many sons as he wants. But you only have one brother. The only person you can rely on, from now on, is me."
Elizabeth met his gaze. In those gray eyes, there was a kind of almost devout seriousness.
She nodded. "I know."
Sawyer's smile this time was one of pure contentment.
Days slipped by, one after another, and Elizabeth start to feel that she needed to do something.
Not for Sawyer. For herself. She needed power, needed some way to protect herself. If there came a day when Sawyer turned on her, she couldn't afford to sit and wait for it.
"Sawyer," she said one day over a meal, "I want to learn how to shoot."