Chapter 34
He got her, declaring his ownership in the most straightforward way.
So why did that sense of losing control refuse to fade? If anything, it had seeped into his marrow, becoming something he couldn't name or shake off.
Outside in the hallway, silence stretched like dark water.
Elizabeth's body still trembled in small, betraying waves.
She'd thought herself prepared for this. But when it actually happened—being used like a possession, cataloged and filed away—the violence it did to whatever dignity she had left still tore through her.
Then she lifted her chin. The sharpness returned to her gaze, cold and cutting as glass.
It's fine.
Just part of the price.
She straightened her spine and walked toward the guest room, her silhouette reed-thin under the dim corridor lights but carrying that unbreakable tension—like a wire that would never snap.
What Elizabeth didn't know, someone was watching from the shadows.
Samantha had tailed them back, tucked into the alcove at the hallway's bend. She'd seen everything—Elizabeth emerging from Jacob's study with unsteady steps, hair mussed, and that telling red mark blooming on her neck even in the low light.
Jacob actually touched her.
They screwed in his study. And she drugged him for nothing.
Samantha bit down on her lip until she tasted copper.
Watching Elizabeth disappear toward the guest wing, she let out a cold snort.
Elizabeth barely made it to the temporary guest room, exhaustion and physical discomfort weighing on her like wet wool. All she wanted was a quick shower and sleep.
However, when she lifted the quilt, a cold and damp feeling came over her. The entire bed's sheets and bedding had actually been soaked with cold water!
Dark stains spread across the expensive silk bedding like spilled ink. The room reeked of cold, clammy air.
Elizabeth froze. Her eyes went arctic.
Didn't take a genius to figure out who'd done this.
A smug little laugh echoed from the doorway.
Samantha leaned against the frame, arms crossed, malice written all over her face. "Oh no, Ms. Windsor. Looks like some clumsy maid must've spilled water all over your bed. Guess you can't sleep here tonight." She dragged out the words, dripping with fake sympathy. "The Smith estate isn't exactly a free hotel for just anyone. Since this room's out of commission, maybe you should head back to the Windsors where you belong."
Elizabeth turned slowly, taking in Samantha's face—a face that screamed I did this, and what were you gonna do about it? Rage and icy murderous intent warred inside her.
But her expression stayed eerily calm. Almost mocking.
"Ms. Smith," she said quietly, every word crisp as breaking ice, "petty little stunts like this only make you look pathetic and stupid."
"Who are you calling pathetic?!" Samantha's voice shot up, shrill with fury. "You're the one who needs to get the hell out! You think sleeping with Jacob once makes you queen of this house? Dream on! I'm the Smith family daughter! You're nothing but a—"
A voice cut through her rant like a blade through silk. Low, cold, stopping her mid-breath.
"Samantha. What the hell are you screeching about?"
Jacob stood in the hallway—when had he gotten there?—freshly showered, dark robe hanging open slightly, damp hair catching the light. His expression was glacial. His gaze swept the drenched bed, landed on Samantha's panic-stricken face, then settled on Elizabeth standing amid the wreckage, spine straight, face blank as stone.
Samantha jumped like she'd been electrocuted. "Jacob! Her bed just—it got wet on its own! It wasn't me! I was just suggesting she go back to the Windsors—"
"Shut up." Jacob's voice was flat. "Did I ask you to speak?"
Samantha went pale, words dying in her throat.
Jacob ignored her completely. He walked into the guest room, took one look at the ruined bed, and his brow creased—just barely.
He knew exactly who'd done this. His disgust for Samantha deepened another layer.
His eyes moved to Elizabeth. She stood there, back ramrod straight, face empty of emotion, as if none of this was happening to her at all.
Then he spoke, tone casual as giving directions. "You can't sleep here." A beat. His gaze locked on hers. "Come to my room."
The words detonated like a grenade in Samantha's ears.
Her eyes went huge. "Jacob?! Are you letting her into your room? No one's allowed in there!"
Jacob's bedroom was his fortress. Even the cleaning staff had strict schedules. Tina herself rarely set foot inside. Outsiders? Never.
It was an unspoken rule at Smith Manor—a symbol of his absolute authority.
And now he was inviting Elizabeth in?
Even Elizabeth blinked, surprised.
She hadn't expected this either.
Jacob didn't explain. Just repeated himself, harder this time. "My room. Now."
Then his icy stare swung to Samantha, warning laced through every syllable. "If I catch you pulling shit like this again, tonight's little chat is going to look like a friendly conversation. Get back to your room."
Samantha looked like she'd been struck by lightning. Humiliation and jealousy shook through her entire body. Tears pooled in her eyes, but she didn't dare say another word. She shot Elizabeth one last venomous glare, then covered her face and fled, sobbing.
The hallway fell silent again.
Jacob didn't wait. He turned and headed toward his suite.
Elizabeth stood there, watching his retreating back. Looked at the cold, soaked bed. Went quiet for a few seconds.
Then she followed.
Stepping into Jacob's bedroom was like entering a different world.
Massive. Austere. Black, white, and gunmetal gray dominated the space—sharp lines, zero softness, pure masculine control radiating from every surface.
Jacob gestured toward an oversized leather sofa near the window. It looked more like a lounge setup than actual furniture, but it was still a couch. "You sleep there."
He headed for the king-size bed.
Clearly, sharing wasn't on the table. What happened in the study was just that—situational release. Nothing more.
Elizabeth didn't argue. This was better than anything she'd imagined.
At least the couch was dry and warm.
She walked over without fuss and started stripping off her clothes, lying down bare.
The guest room might've had spare clothes. Jacob's room sure as hell didn't stock women's pajamas. And she wasn't about to ask.
Jacob killed the main lights, leaving only a dim amber wall sconce.
When he turned back and saw her naked silhouette stretched across his couch, heat spiked through him again.
He clamped down on it hard. Once was enough. He wasn't giving this woman any illusions about having leverage.
Jacob walked to his closet, grabbed one of his sleep shirts, and tossed it onto her bare body. His voice was ice. "Put it on. Stop trying to seduce me."
Elizabeth bit back an eye roll and yanked the shirt over her head. "Good night, Mr. Smith."
Jacob didn't answer. He climbed into bed. The room sank into a strange, weighted darkness.
Neither of them spoke. Only the faint sound of breathing filled the space.
Elizabeth closed her eyes and willed herself to sleep.
She knew—starting tonight, her position in the Smith household would become infinitely more complicated because of Jacob.
And Samantha's hatred? It had just hit critical mass.
But so what?
She was already in the center of the storm. A little more chaos, a little less calm—it made no real difference.
What she wanted was never peace.