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“You’re not safe, Isabelle. You’ll never be safe again,” he says. I don’t know if it’s his words or their warning or the fact that I know they’re true, but I shake my head. A sound begins in my ears, like a drumming. The drumming of my heart, the pumping of blood. The thud thud thud of chaos inside me.
“Careful,” he calls out.
I’m backing away from him because I don’t want him to bleed me. I don’t want to be the next Bishop they bury in their cemetery.
“Isabelle, stop!”
He picks up his pace and then he’s running. There’s something else in his eyes, an urgency in his stride. I keep going, because he’s too close. I’m ready to sprint away, only I’ve run out of ground. There’s no earth to meet my step and I scream as I fall backward. The last thing I see is Jericho St. James’s face as he reaches out to catch me, fingertips brushing fingertips as my arms flail, long black hair in wisps floating through air, and the sensation of falling. Falling. Falling. And then…nothing.
17
Jericho
“Fuck.”
I drop down into the small embankment where Isabelle lies still, eyes closed.
“Isabelle?”
No answer. I crouch down bedside her and watch her chest move up and down. I look her over before touching her. It’s only a three-foot drop but still. Arms and legs are at normal angles. I feel them, nothing seems to be broken. Hardly any blood but for a couple of scratches and the gash on her shin which looks like it’s already closing up. She must have gotten that one earlier.
“Isabelle? Can you hear me?” I gently lift her head to feel the back of it. Mutter a curse as I look at the smear of blood on my palm. Although it’s not bleeding heavily. I lift her and am relieved she landed like she did. The rock just inches away would have caused more damage.
I run my hand over her spine as she flops forward into me. When she groans, I exhale with relief.
“I’m going to lift you up,” I tell her. She doesn’t respond and doesn’t move as I set one arm at her back and the other under her knees. Her head drops against my chest and her arms hang limp as I carry her back to the house.
This wasn’t the kind of bloodletting I was talking about.
I walk in through the same door we exited and carry her upstairs. It’s still dark, everyone will still be sleeping. I’m grateful for that. The last thing Angelique needs to see is me carrying a bloody, dirt-covered Isabelle upstairs. She’s already become attached to her. Something I hadn’t counted on. And definitely not for it to happen as quickly as it has.
I bypass Isabelle’s door and carry her into my room, drawing the blankets back and laying her in my bed. I look down at her. She looks so small. So fragile. More breakable than I thought.
With a sigh I walk into the bathroom stripping off my soaked sweater as I go and tossing it on top of the hamper. I grab a few towels, the first-aid kit and walk back into the bedroom. She hasn’t stirred. I set the towels down and sit her up to pull the T-shirt she’s wearing over her head. I drop it to the floor and peel off her panties.
I take a moment to look at her, then get to work. She’s cold. Her skin icy. I dry her off, wiping away dirt as best as I can before dropping the soiled towels on the floor and choosing a warm sweater from my dresser for her. I slip it over her head and cover her with the blanket. Then cradling the back of her head, I feel the bump there. My fingers come away dry. Again, I’m relieved.
She stirs then, a sound of protest. The bump is tender, I’m sure.
“Shh, relax,” I tell her as she blinks her eyes open. They’re heavy and I imagine she’ll fall asleep again but then she looks at me. For a moment, it’s as though she doesn’t recognize me. Just for a moment. Then her eyes go wide and she tries to sit up, but can’t. I watch her, see the effort it takes her to keep her eyes open.
“Just close your eyes, Isabelle,” I tell her.
“You…” She’s drifting but fighting it. She manages to put a hand to my chest. I think she means to push me away but her arm flops back onto the bed.
“I’m going to take care of you. You’re safe,” I say without thinking.
“I’m not,” she mutters but her eyes don’t open again. I look at her face, her pretty face. There’s a cut across her cheek. It’s superficial. I’ll tend to that too but first the one on the back of her head.
I turn her head slightly and clean the dried blood as best I can without irritating the cut. It’s matted into her hair, but it could have been worse. Once it’s as clean as I can get it, I leave her in the bedroom and go downstairs for ice. When I return, she still hasn’t moved, and her breathing is even. I set the ice at the back of her head, she winces, tries to pull away.
“Shh,” I tell her, cupping her cheek. “Sleep.”
She does and I get to work on the other injuries, cleaning cuts and bandaging what needs to be bandaged. By the time it’s done I’m tired. Fucking exhausted. I walk around to the other side of the bed—I’d put her on my side without thinking—and climb in. She still doesn’t stir so I turn out the light and listen to her steady, even breathing, feel the warmth of her body beside mine. I let myself drift off knowing it will be a fitful sleep.
18
Isabelle
