Vengeance in His Bed novel Chapter 42

Chapter 42: The Adventures of His Fingers: Wish It Were Me

The door of Jannah’s room rattled open.

The deep, late-evening shadows had already claimed the room. Jannah stood frozen by the edge of the wardrobe, her long, dark hair damp and clinging to her shoulder blades from a desperate, hours-long bath she had taken to scrub the persistent scent of Dorrent from her skin. She was wrapped in nothing but a single, pristine white linen towel—a garment so agonizingly short that it barely managed to conceal the swell of her hips, leaving the full length of her pale, slender legs completely bare to the cool air.

Dorrent stepped into the room. He had discarded his corporate suit jacket, his silk shirt unbuttoned at the collar to reveal the hard column of his throat. His eyes flared with an immediate, unhinged predatory intensity the moment they locked onto her exposed, shivering physique. He looked at her with a slow, heavy deliberation that felt like a physical assault, his gaze tracing the path of the water droplets sliding down her pale thighs, undressing the very fractions of her body that the short towel attempted to guard.

"You’re late, Alpha," Jannah whispered, her voice a thin, defensive friction as she instinctively clutched the knot of the linen against her chest.

Dorrent didn’t answer immediately. He took two slow, dominant strides forward, compressing the distance between them until his pheromones completely crowded her lungs. With a flick of his wrist, he produced a small, sleek black drive card. He reached out, his long fingers deliberately brushing against her palm as he forced the card into her hand.

"Watch it," Dorrent commanded, his deep voice dropping into a thick, gravelly register that vibrated against her skin. "Watch every single second of it, Jannah. I want you to see exactly how I performed with Joanne tonight, so that your stubborn, defiant little mind will believe whatever outcome is recorded there, rather than assuming I manufactured a lie to keep you trapped in this house, on my bed."

The sheer, suffocating proximity of his naked gaze made Jannah’s core tighten with a sudden, unbidden wave of heat. Terrified of her own body’s treason, she snatched the drive card, shoved her small palm against his chest, and used every ounce of her leverage to push him backward out of her space.

"Get out," she hissed, slamming the double doors shut and throwing the brass latch into place with a loud, resounding click.

Left alone in the shadows, Jannah’s breathing was shallow, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. She dropped onto the edge of the mattress, her fingers trembling as she stared at the black drive card. A dark, desperate anticipation burned within her chest. She needed to know. She was absolutely desperate to know the biological data contained within that drive.

Earlier that morning, during his breakfast assembly, she had secretly infused his tea with a concentrated, highly volatile extract of ghost-thistle—a rare, toxic herb her grandfather had taught her to harvest from the swamp districts. In precise doses, ghost-thistle did not harm the body permanently, but it acted as a severe neural dampener, targeting the pelvic blood flow of dominant Alphas and making physical arousal mathematically impossible under normal psychological stimulation. She had done it to humiliate him. She had no real intention of honoring her gamble or leaving the Grefo estate until she had thoroughly dismantled his pride and avenged the bloody smoke of the night her parents were slaughtered during his mindless rut. She had only weaponized the threat of leaving because she couldn’t bear the thought of him realizing how thoroughly her treacherous, weak body had craved his savage touch the night before. Sleeping with the killer of her parents and feeling such devastating, earth-shattering pleasure was a sin that shook her to the very soul.

With a rapid, frantic motion, Jannah grabbed her digital tablet from the nightstand. She inserted the drive card into the side port, her eyes reflecting the sudden, blinding flash of the screen as the media file initialized and opened the scene.

The video quality was pristine, captured from a hidden, high-definition security matrix mounted in the vaulted rafters of a hotel room.

The scene started with Joanne. The elite supermodel was already stark naked, sprawling across the dark silk sheets of the bed like a high-district trophy. Jannah’s breath hitched as she analyzed the visual data. Joanne was the absolute, polar opposite of her own fragile framework; she was statuesque, tall, her skin a rich, golden tan, her physical dimensions fuller and thoroughly developed. She was staring expectantly toward the edge of the frame.

Then, Dorrent appeared.

He walked into the camera’s view completely naked, his towering, magnificent S-tier physique rendered in flawless, sharp definition. His broad, muscular back was turned to the camera, the deep, symmetrical V-taper of his lats sliding down into a hardened, washboard lower back and tight, powerful glutes. Jannah let out a quiet, involuntary curse beneath her breath. Damn him, she thought, her teeth sinking into her lower lip as a wave of unbidden heat rushed to her cheeks. She loathed how physically perfect he was; she desperately wished he didn’t look that staggeringly hot, that his body wasn’t a living masterpiece of raw, masculine power designed to make an omega’s instincts whimper.

On the screen, Dorrent strode over to the mattress. Joanne reached up, her long, manicured arms winding around his neck as they dived into a heavy, suffocating kiss. They entangled themselves instantly, their bodies twisting across the silk.

But then, the geometry of the encounter shifted. Dorrent forcefully altered their positions, rolling onto his back and pulling Joanne’s tall frame completely on top of him. Joanne leaned down, her golden hair cascading over his face as she began to rain desperate, hungry kisses along his collarbone, her hips grinding against his thighs. Dorrent’s hands reached up, idly kneading and gripping her plush buttocks with a heavy pressure.

Then, it happened.

As Joanne trailed her wet kisses below his neck, moving downward toward his chest, Dorrent slowly tilted his head back against the pillows. His eyes opened, turning away from the woman on top of him to lock directly onto the exact angle of the hidden camera.

Jannah froze, the tablet nearly slipping from her pale fingers. The intensity of his gaze through the digital screen was staggering. It felt alive, piercing through the glass divider, locking onto her eyes across the distance of the corridor. It was as if Dorrent knew exactly where she would be sitting; it was the look of an Alpha who was completely imagining her—while lying beneath the hands of another woman. Jannah violently looked away from the tablet, her heart thumping wildly against her ribs as if the real, physical Dorrent were standing right in front of her in the room.

Breathing heavily, she forced herself to look back at the screen.

Joanne had shifted further down his magnificent torso. Her fingers reached between his thighs, finding his completely relaxed, dormant manhood. The ghost-thistle had done its work perfectly. The thick length of his cock remained entirely soft, lifeless, and unresponsive despite the supermodel’s proximity. Joanne leaned down, taking his flaccid crown into her mouth, licking on it, rubbing the shaft with her wet tongue, and pumping her hand frantically along the length in a desperate, high-bred display of seduction.

Jannah let out a low, venomous curse against the screen. This clever, deceitful bastard, she thought, her chest heaving with frustration. He had managed to protect his devastating secret perfectly, turning his biological failure into a clinical excuse that left his reputation entirely intact.

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