Chapter 39
The subtle shift in her posture—the way she squared her shoulders, a tension so faint it was almost invisible—made my brow twitch.
She was misunderstanding something. Terribly.
My original plan had been simple: warn her about Lilith Moretti. But now, watching her stand there like a soldier awaiting orders, the words died on my tongue.
A strange, perverse thought took root. I wanted to see what she would do.
So, instead of speaking, I leaned back in my chair. My gaze was heavy, deliberate, as I watched her. I tapped a slow, rhythmic beat on the polished mahogany of my desk, a silent command to proceed.
Elizabeth took it all in—the posture, the silence, the predatory stillness in my eyes—and interpreted it in the only way she knew how. I had a need.
She didn't hesitate, didn't show a flicker of reluctance. She walked around the desk and, just as she had before, sank to her knees in front of me.
The practiced ease of the movement made my pupils constrict.
Her eyes were downcast as her hand moved to the buckle of my belt. Her fingertips, cool and detached, brushed against the skin of my abdomen.
My entire body went rigid.
The misunderstanding had, admittedly, sparked a flicker of heat in my veins, but I'd only intended to toy with her. I had actual business to discuss.
As my mind raced, debating whether to stop her and get to the point, she leaned forward. The movement caused the high collar of her turtleneck to gap slightly.
A small, pale object on a thin black cord slipped from beneath the fabric. It dangled against her chest, swaying with her subtle movements.
It was the whistle. The one I'd had carved from Henry's finger bone.
My gaze locked onto it, and the world narrowed to that single point. It rested against her warm skin, glowing with a cold, grotesque light in the dim, amber-toned study.
It was jarring. Obscene.
The gift I'd given her, she was wearing it? Around her neck, so close to her heart?
If it were any other gift, I wouldn't have given a damn. But this was a piece of another man. A filthy, worthless man. And his bone was lying against my woman's skin, moment by moment. A deep, primal anger began to churn in my gut.
Elizabeth must have felt the sudden tension in my body, the way my breath hitched. Thinking she'd done something wrong, she hesitated and finally looked up.
She was met with eyes that swirled with a terrifying storm. My gaze wasn't on her face, but fixed, burning, on the whistle at her chest.
"You…" My voice was a raw, strangled sound, thick with suppressed fury. "You like the gift?"
She followed my line of sight and saw the bone whistle. A flicker of confusion crossed her face before she nodded. "Yes. It's a gift from you, Mr. Smith. It's unique. I like it very much."
It was the goddamn truth, spoken from the heart. To drive the point home, she lifted the whistle to her lips and blew.
A faint, sharp, eerie note sliced through the silence of the room. It was like a call from the depths of hell.
And it lit the fuse to the rage coiling inside me.
Jesus Christ, she really did like it. She was even playing the damn thing for me.
That whistle was a symbol of another man. Even though that bastard was now crippled, missing two fingers, he was still here, in a way. Pressed against her body. Cherished by her.
"Enough!" I snarled, my hand shooting out to clamp around her wrist. My grip was tight enough to bruise, to crush. The desire in my eyes had been completely extinguished, replaced by an icy wrath.
In one brutal, fluid motion, I hauled her up, forcing her back and onto the massive desk. There was no tenderness in the act, only punishment and the raw need to claim what was mine.
It was brief, violent. Less an act of passion and more a unilateral marking of territory.
My face was a cold mask the entire time, my eyes repeatedly snagging on the goddamn whistle as it danced with her movements, an infuriating pendulum mocking me.
When it was over, I pulled away just as quickly, straightening my clothes. There was no satisfaction on my face, only a cold, lingering storm.
Elizabeth pushed herself up from the desk, her body trembling slightly. She silently fixed her disheveled clothes, tucking the bone whistle back inside her collar.
She had no idea why I'd exploded. Over a whistle?
Jacob was a man of fickle moods and inexplicable rage.
I fastened the last button on my shirt and turned, my eyes like daggers aimed at her throat.
"Take it off," I commanded. After a beat, I added, my voice dropping to a lethal whisper, "Or I'll take it from you and grind it into dust."
Her hands stilled.
She looked up at me, and for the first time, I saw genuine, undisguised bewilderment in her eyes.
To her, the whistle wasn't just a gift. It was a milestone on her path of vengeance. A reminder.
"Why?" She asked, the question laced with an honesty that grated on my raw nerves.
"Because I don't like it," I answered, my tone absolute, leaving no room for argument. "My possessions don't need to be tainted by another man's mark. Especially not a disgusting one."
Elizabeth visibly fought the urge to argue. He gave a gift, then he despised it. It didn't matter. She had no right to an opinion.
She was silent for a few seconds before her hands rose to her neck. She slowly untied the thin cord, and the pale bone whistle came free. She held it in her palm, its warmth from her skin already fading, leaving only a cool, jade-like chill.
I snatched it from her hand without a second glance and tossed it into the heavy brass ashtray on the corner of my desk.
It landed with a sharp, lonely clink.
I refused to look at her. My voice returned to its usual cold, detached tone. "You can go now. And one more thing. Watch your back. Lilith Moretti might come after you. Handle it. Don't bring me any trouble."
With that, I sat back down, picked up a file, and pretended none of it had ever happened.
Elizabeth glanced at the solitary whistle in the ashtray, then at me, already lost in my work. She said nothing. She simply turned and left the study.
The moment the door clicked shut, my eyes lifted from the page. They strayed to the offensive fleck of white in the ashtray.
Grind it to dust? The thought had been real, a burning need just moments ago.
But now…
I scrubbed a hand over my face, a wave of irritation washing over me. Finally, I reached out, my fingers closing around the whistle, now coated in a fine layer of ash. I brought it back to my palm.
The cold, hard reality of it pressed into my skin.
I stared at it for a long, silent moment before pulling open the bottom drawer of my desk. I threw it inside and slammed the drawer shut.
Out of sight, out of mind.
When Samantha returned home, preening with self-satisfaction, a young maid who often benefited from her generosity scurried over. Her face was pale with anxiety as she leaned in and whispered urgently in Samantha's ear.