Only his

Ch27

Nobody's POV

The mansion was never quiet. It only pretended to be.

Beneath its grand walls and chandeliers, silence carried weight. The tick of the grandfather clock echoed through the marble halls, each strike of the pendulum a reminder that time itself belonged to Drew Sheard. His kingdom did not rest—not truly. Not when the air itself felt like it bent around his will.

Karen lay in bed, her body stiff beneath the weight of his arm draped across her waist. The sheets smelled faintly of whiskey and cologne, his scent clinging to her as if to remind her she wasn't going anywhere. She stared up at the ceiling, tracing the shadows cast by the moonlight through tall curtains. Every creak of the house made her flinch, though she didn't dare move.

Drew wasn't asleep. He never really slept. His breathing was steady, his body warm against hers, but his mind was awake—calculating, watching, waiting.

Somewhere in the mansion, servants moved like ghosts. They carried trays, adjusted curtains, locked doors. Their steps were cautious, soft. They had long learned that the quieter they became, the safer they were. This was a house that demanded obedience—not just from them, but from everyone inside it.

The wind rattled the iron gates outside, the ones Drew had recently had reinforced with the Clark family name etched across them, as if to brand Karen even further into his world.

Karen shut her eyes, pretending for a fleeting moment that she was back in her mother's house, where voices filled the air with warmth instead of dread. But the illusion shattered when Drew shifted, pulling her closer until his lips brushed against her ear.

"You're awake."

It wasn't a question.

Her throat tightened. She didn't speak. Silence had become her only shield, fragile though it was.

Drew's hand slid down her arm, fingers wrapping around her wrist. His grip wasn't cruel, but it was unyielding. "You're thinking again," he murmured, voice low and steady. "Always thinking. You know I don't like that."

The clock struck three. Its chime rolled through the halls like a warning bell.

Karen's breath hitched, and she turned her face slightly, just enough to avoid the sharpness of his gaze. The shadows deepened around his features, and for a moment he looked less like a man and more like a force—something untouchable, unstoppable.

"Thoughts turn into doubts," Drew said, his thumb brushing across the pulse at her wrist. "And doubts turn into mistakes. I don't want mistakes from you, baby. Not you."

She shivered, though the room was warm.

The mansion seemed to lean in, listening. The walls, the floor, the very air—they all bore witness to this exchange.

Karen didn't answer. Her silence stretched between them, fragile as glass. Drew studied her face, waiting for the smallest crack. When none came, he sighed and let go of her wrist, though his arm stayed firmly around her waist.

"You'll learn to stop fighting me," he whispered. His words weren't harsh—they were gentle, tender even—but there was no mistaking the threat beneath them.

Karen swallowed hard. In the pit of her chest, fear twisted. But alongside it—like an ember hidden beneath ash—was something she didn't want to admit. Something more dangerous than fear.

At times like this, when his voice dropped low and his hand lingered on her skin, she wondered if part of her had already surrendered.

The thought terrified her more than his grip ever could.

⸻

The night stretched on.

Downstairs, the staff whispered among themselves in the kitchen. No one dared to speak Drew's name above a murmur, but they traded glances, their eyes heavy with unspoken truths. They had seen women come and go from powerful men before, but this—this was different. Karen wasn't passing through. She was being folded into him, piece by piece, until she would have nowhere else to go.

One of the maids glanced up toward the ceiling, toward the master suite, and muttered a prayer under her breath. She liked Karen. The sweetness in her eyes. The way she smiled when she thought no one was watching. The maid knew that softness would be tested, maybe even broken.

⸻

Upstairs, Drew finally rose from the bed. He moved to the window, the whiskey glass from earlier still on the sill. The city stretched out below, lights glittering like stars caught in asphalt. His reflection in the glass was dark, sharp, unyielding.

Karen sat up slowly, pulling the sheet to her chest. She watched his back, the broad set of his shoulders, the confidence in the way he stood. He was a man who feared nothing—except losing her.

"You belong to me," Drew said without turning, his voice carrying easily across the room. "And I'll make sure the world never forgets that."

Karen's lips parted, words trembling on her tongue, but nothing came out.

His reflection shifted, his eyes meeting hers through the glass. "Say it."

Her breath caught. She shook her head faintly, unable to speak.

He turned then, slow, deliberate. His gaze bore into her as he crossed the room and knelt on the edge of the bed. His hand cupped her face, forcing her to meet him.

"You belong to me," he repeated, softer this time, almost pleading beneath the authority. "Don't fight it. Don't fight me."

Tears stung her eyes, not from pain, but from the crushing weight of inevitability. Because deep down, in the quiet of her soul, she feared he might be right.

⸻

Outside, the wind howled against the gates. The mansion held its breath.

And in the stillness of the night, one truth wrapped itself around them both—an invisible chain, stronger than iron, binding her closer to him with every heartbeat.

Karen trembled against his touch, caught between fear, defiance, and a dangerous spark of something else.

Something that scared her more than the cage itself.

Because maybe—just maybe—she was already his.

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