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I take the sheets of parchment from the bed and roll them up in one hand. “Hand me your clothes.” I hold out a hand.
“You said you were just looking,” her voice is barely a whisper.
“Hand them to me.”
She extends the clothes toward me as a tear slides from each eye.
I take the clothes and shoes and watch the path of those tears. “You’ll spend the night here. Your punishment for running. I’ll be back for you tomorrow morning. If you try to run again, you’ll spend two more nights. Are you following my math?” I ask more firmly than I need to. “Or do I need to dumb it down.”
She nods.
“Dumb it down or you understand?”
She grits her teeth. “I understand.” Her eyes dart around the creepy room and although there is fear, I also see relief in them. Relief I won’t touch her.
Should I tell her the reprieve is temporary?
I don’t. Another kindness. Instead, I turn and walk to the door, barely pausing when I hear her audible gasp at the sight of my back. I step out into the chilly corridor, closing and locking the door behind me. I ignore the ghost that trails me back up the stairs. She’ll stop at the steel door. I don’t know why she doesn’t leave the cellar. Doesn’t return to the happier places.
Happier. I think sometimes happiness is erased from memory. In a way, it’s more painful to remember those moments. To know what you lost.
I shake my head and drag that heavy door closed. It takes all I have to lock it again.
For Angelique, I tell myself. To keep her safe. I don’t ever want her going down there. Ever.
9
Isabelle
The lightbulb swings with the jarring of the door against the doorframe. I hear the lock turn and listen for his retreating steps. I don’t cry out for him to come back. I’ve been robbed of my voice. But a few moments later, when the light settles, I walk to the door and try it. Locked tight. Am I safer for it? Will whatever it is I felt out there stay out there? On the other side of my locked door? Because I swear there’s something.
Christian used to laugh at how jumpy I’ve always been. He loved horror movies and I always watched them with him, even knowing I’d have nightmares later. He’d make a giant tub of popcorn and we’d sit under blankets and watch. He’d laugh while I covered my eyes at the worst moments. And for days after I’d swear I’d see ghosts or hear them. But it was always worth it. My brother and I were close, especially after we lost our parents. I miss him so much. It’s been three years and I still miss him every day.
I shudder with the damp cold typical of cellars and grab the shirt Jericho St. James dropped on the bed. Why did he leave it? It’s not as if it’s much protection against the cold. I hesitate for a moment but only a moment because being down here is fucking with me. I slide it over my head, tucking my arms into it. The sleeves come to my wrists only because he’d had them folded up to his elbows and the shirt itself reaches to mid-thigh. It’s still warm from him. It still smells like him.
The springs of the bed creak as I sit on the edge and draw my legs up. I hug my knees and am weirdly grateful he left his shirt. I don’t feel so alone. And I know how ridiculous that sounds. He hates me. I would be safer alone than I am with him. Didn’t he just prove that?
Heat flushes my face at what happened. How he held me against the wall. How he stripped me. How it felt when he touched me. I’m still damp between my legs, and I can’t even begin to process that. I tell myself it’s not arousal. It’s humiliation.
I push my fingers into my hair and pull at my scalp as I remember the rest of it. Like how I didn’t move when he told me not to move. Like how he didn’t exactly have to hold me down to rip off my clothes. How I didn’t fight. I should have. But when it comes to strength, he’ll win hands down. It made no sense for me to fight.
I picture that tattoo on his back. I only saw it for a moment, but I don’t think I’ll ever forget it. Two giant dragons coiled around one another. Fighting? I’m not sure. Embracing? Entwined in love maybe? I need to study it to know. I doubt I’ll get the chance and I can’t even believe I’m thinking about it. It spanned the whole of his back in vivid color, the muscle moving beneath the ink somehow making those dragons come to life.
I lean back against the wall, not sure I want to lie down on this mattress. He said he’d come back in the morning. It’s already late, isn’t it? When we left IVI it was after nine. Dinner is always served late there so maybe it’ll just be a few hours before he returns. Do I want him to return?
These thoughts circle for what seems like eternity, and I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep until the turning of the key in the lock wakes me some time later. I straighten up, wipe at the corners of my mouth and rub my eyes as the door opens carrying that chill draft with it, the lightbulb swaying on its wire. It’s the same feeling as last night. I didn’t imagine it. But whatever that chill is, it stayed out of my room until he returned. Is it attracted to him?
Jericho St. James looks freshly showered, hair still damp, face shaved clean. He’s dressed casually in dark blue jeans and a charcoal cashmere sweater. From the V-neck I see the creeping edges of the tattoo on his back.
He tucks his hands into his pockets. His sleeves are rolled up, so I see those tails again. This time, I note the watch, expensive, and the bracelet he wears on the same wrist. It’s too delicate for him. Doesn’t quite fit. But my gaze again moves to that ink and he stands there to let me take him in.
I feel my face flush and look away, embarrassed. I can’t seem to take my eyes off this man. I was used to how Carlton was. Domineering. Bullying maybe. But Jericho St. James is different than that. He is the definition of power. A force like a deadly storm.
“Good morning,” he says.
I don’t reply.
“Sleep well?” One corner of his mouth curves upward
