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He grits his teeth and I know I should stop while I’m ahead.
“Why did you do that? What was that last night?” I ask.
The bottoms of my feet hurt. My shin. I remember losing my shoes and falling. My whole body aches. And I realize I don’t recognize the sweater I’m wearing. And I know instantly whose it is when I sniff the sleeve.
When I look up at him, he’s watching me, amused.
“Did you undress me?”
“I did. Nothing I hadn’t seen before.” He winks.
Fucking bastard.
I look past him for my clothes. Well, clothes. T-shirt and panties because I am pretty sure he took those off too.
“Where’s my T-shirt?”
“That ratty thing? What’s the matter? Don’t tell me things are so dire at the Bishop house you can’t afford to buy a proper—”
“Where is it?” I push the blankets off to swing my legs over the edge of the bed and stand but it’s too soon. Pain and dizziness throw me off balance and I stumble forward right into Jericho St. James’s very wide, very muscular chest. He catches me and I want to pull my hands off him, to tear myself out of his grasp but I do neither.
“Relax, Isabelle. Get back in bed.” He puts me back into his bed and I see the scrapes on my legs, see where some are bandaged.
“Where’s my shirt?” I ask again.
“I’m having it laundered.”
“You’re washing it? Why?”
“It was filthy from our game.”
“It wasn’t a game. Not to me.” My voice breaks, the fear of last night and the energy of it all, this whole thing, catching up with me. I wipe the backs of my hands over my eyes. I will not cry. I will not fucking cry. Not in front of him. “I want my shirt back.”
“You’ll get it back once it’s cleaned. It’s a fucking T-shirt.”
“It’s not just any T-shirt.” I start to tell him it’s Christian’s. That I have been wearing it since he died. That it took me months to even wash it. But I don’t. He doesn’t deserve to know that. To know anything about me. I touch the bruise on my shin around the bandage. “Did you do this? Bandage me up?”
He nods solemnly, expression all seriousness.
“Why? Isn’t it what you wanted? To spill Bishop blood?”
“That wasn’t the blood I would have spilled. My plans were of a more intimate nature.”
At first, I don’t follow but after a moment, I understand. My virginity. He would have taken it last night if I hadn’t knocked myself out. I feel my face grow warm and I’m sure my skin has flushed red.
“Well, I’m not sorry I spoiled your little game of bloodletting, you sick prick. I could have been seriously hurt.”
“You weren’t.”
“I was.”
“And now I know to take better care with you considering your…fragility.”
“I’m not fragile. I’m just not used to being told horrible stories about my family and yours and then being made to run for my life.”
“You were never in danger of losing your life.”
“Only my virginity?” I don’t know why I ask it and the instant I do that warmth of embarrassment I’d felt moments ago turns into bright red heat.
