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“I never assumed anything like that,” she says.
“Yeah? You’ve been playing house though. Getting comfortable. Too comfortable.” I lay a hand against the wall and lean into her. “You forget your place. And I’ve let you. We’ll fix that tonight.”
I take her by the arm and walk her out the door and to the back seat of the waiting Rolls Royce. She scoots to the far side as soon as I let her go, folding her arms across her chest and watching out the window as Dex drives toward the compound.
I will teach her tonight. Just like I had planned. Because I have been too soft on her.
42
Isabelle
The auction is well attended and by the time we arrive, the baroque ballroom is full of elegantly dressed men and women drinking champagne from crystal flutes. Jericho slips the cloak from my shoulders and hands it to the woman checking coats. He pockets the ticket she gives him and sets his hand at my lower back to walk me into the crowd where heads are already turning.
I know why he chose this dress for me. Why he required my hair to be done up, my back fully exposed. I hear it in the gasps and the chatter as we walk past the other guests, and I feel myself shrink a little.
I am a thing. His thing.
That’s what Jericho is proving tonight. I guess this is his punishment. Him teaching me my place. Asshole.
“Is this what you wanted? To show them all that you own me?” I ask him as he takes two flutes of champagne and holds one out to me. I’m tempted to throw it in his face but I’m not stupid.
He smiles down to me. No, it’s not quite a smile. It’s more of a predator’s leering grin just before the animal goes in for the kill.
“I don’t care about them. I only care that you know who owns you. And I can promise you one thing. You will know without a doubt before the night is out.”
“Jericho,” comes a voice from behind me.
I stiffen, recognizing it, and turn to find the man with the skull tattooed on half his face standing there with a woman. A beautiful woman with a friendly smile.
Jericho puts a possessive hand around the back of my neck.
“Santiago. Ivy.”
Santiago smiles but Ivy’s is the one that warms up the room. “Hi,” she starts, extending her hand. “I’m Ivy De La Rosa. You met my husband, but I haven’t had the pleasure yet.”
I take her hand and feel her give me a squeeze. The gesture is conscious, a message of sorts. And I don’t want to let go.
“I’m Isabelle Bishop—”
“St. James,” Jericho corrects.
We both glance at him and I clear my throat and turn back to Ivy. “It’s nice to meet you, Ivy.”
A waiter appears with a tray, but Ivy shakes her head. “I’m going to go get some juice,” she tells Santiago, keeping hold of my hand when she does.
“Me too,” I say, setting my still-full glass on the tray and slipping out of reach of Jericho. “The thought of alcohol turns my stomach,” I say, looking back at my husband. “Like so many things seem to tonight.”
Jericho’s eyes narrow but I hear Santiago chuckle as we walk away. “The tattoo looks beautiful. Perhaps I will extend Ivy’s,” he says. I don’t hear Jericho’s response.
“Men,” Ivy says with a roll of her eyes although I see her affection for her husband in the quick glance she throws over her shoulder before she turns her full attention to me. “I’m still breastfeeding so I can’t have champagne,” she says. “It’s too bad. I swear these Society events are much easier to bear when I can have a drink or two.”
“How long have you been married?” I ask. Ivy is a beautiful, confident woman and I’d guess just a few years older than me. It’s strange, maybe it’s that we’re so close in age that I feel how opposite we are. How my confidence has waned, how I seem to be in survival mode. That isn’t since Jericho St. James though. This has been going on since Christian’s death.
“About three years now. I met him much the same way you met Jericho,” she says once we reach the bar. “Orange juice please,” she orders and turns to me. “Same?”
“Yes, please.”
She holds up two fingers and the bartender hurries to fill her order, serving us orange juice in the fanciest glasses I’ve ever seen it served in. We weave through the crowd to a quiet corner where we sit on a deep burgundy velvet couch that is as stiff and uncomfortable as it is beautiful.
