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My heart drops to my stomach at his words. At their meaning. I stop short of the table.
“Sit down and eat,” he says, lifting my desk chair and setting it in front of the tray table. He picks up the wine and pours two glasses.
“I’m underage,” I remind him, picking up my fork. I’m guessing he’s about ten years older than me. I drink wine and beer, but I don’t overdo it primarily because I don’t love it. However, with him, I feel like I need to keep my wits about me.
“As your guardian, I give you permission,” he says with a smirk as he raises the other glass in a mock toast and sips.
Fuck you Jericho St. James.
I think it but don’t say it. I should though. He wouldn’t do what he threatened earlier. I just don’t believe he would. He has a daughter. He can’t be that much of a monster.
But maybe that’s stupidity talking. And better safe than sorry.
“You’re very easy to read, Isabelle,” he says with a that same grin. “I can just about hear the fuck you you’re hurling at me.”
“Me? No. I wouldn’t dream of breaking one of your sacred commandments, oh great sir.” I pick up my glass and drink a bit. It tastes good, a deep, rich red.
“I like the sir. Very much.”
Fuck you. Fuck you. Drop dead. Fuck you.
“Eat.”
I am about to take a bite, but feel his eyes on me so I put my fork down. “Is it poisoned? Is that why you’re not eating? Is it going to make me sick?”
He walks over, picks up the fork on which I’d speared a piece of potato and sticks it into his mouth. He makes a point of chewing and swallowing before replacing the fork.
“Nope, no poison. I already ate with my family.”
“Ah. So this is part of my punishment, my humiliation. I’m to be sent to my room like a misbehaving child.” I don’t know why the thought upsets me. I’d rather be here alone than down there with him anyway. But it’s hard to swallow around the lump in my throat. Maybe it’s the part about his family. The fact that mine is gone. Because Carlton and Julia aren’t family. Not in the way that matters.
I keep my eyes on my plate as I manage the tide of emotion. I pick up my glass, drink another sip to calm my nerves then set it down.
He moves toward the bed, opens a page of the notebook. “What were you doing?”
“Dancing,” I say.
“Funny. What is this?” He flips through a couple pages.
“Music.” I get up, take the notebook from him. Feeling weirdly embarrassed to have him flip through my notebook, I set it aside then sit back down.
“Your hands are dirty.”
I look down at the heel of my hand which is still smeared with pencil marks. I shrug a shoulder, knife in hand. Leaning back against my seat, I watch him as I turn the knife over, considering the sharpness of the blade. I then shift my gaze to his and tilt my head to the side.
“Are you trying to appear remotely threatening?” he asks. At least he’s forgotten about the music. “Because if so, you’re failing. Miserably.”
I stand up, walk toward him. I take his glass and set it down. “I’m tired. It’s been a really long day.”
He chuckles. “Longer for me,” he says, holding my gaze as he closes his hand over mine and relieves me of the knife. “Let me take that before you hurt yourself.”
“Does go to hell count as foul language?” I ask as he sets the knife down.
He considers. “Try me.”
I don’t.
He takes hold of my hands, shifts them behind my back and holds both in one of his. His grip isn’t tight, but I know it can be. His gaze moves over my face, hovering at my lips, then lower to the exposed skin of my chest before returning to my eyes.
