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I glance at the scarf my mother wears around her neck. The branding was to show her and all those present, a member from every sovereign family, that although her family was above his in rank, she would be beneath him in marriage. She would know her place from the first moment the glowing iron sank its searing metal into her flesh, and he burned his mark onto her body.
The thought of my mother kneeling before our father and enduring the pain, the humiliation, makes me sick.
She watches me. She knows what I’m thinking. It’s all I think about when I see one of her scarves around her neck. She’s never without one.
“The marking,” she starts and stops. That’s all she needs to say.
“Ink,” I tell her.
She nods, a visible relief to her features. Which only makes me wonder at my brother’s words of earlier. How much a monster do they think me?
“Everything is ready.” She stands. “And I will sleep now.”
I stand too. “I’ll walk you up.” I haven’t looked in on Angelique since I got home. We go upstairs together and part ways at Angelique’s door. I look after her, wondering about our mother. She is one of the strongest women I know. And she understands what Bishop did, the role he played in Kimberly’s death. And she does want her death avenged but she, like Zeke, has softened at the sight of Isabelle Bishop.
Fucking Isabelle Bishop.
Because at the thought of her name, her face floats before me, head thrown back, eyes closed, throat bared, coming on my hand.
24
Isabelle
The door between my room and his is unlocked. But his room is empty. I don’t hear him or anyone else after his mother leaves. I pace my room trying to wrap my brain around what’s happening. What I’ve learned. All that I don’t know.
His fiancée died in his arms? That’s terrible. And Carlton was the cause of her death? No, that doesn’t make any sense. Carlton may be capable of many things but he’s not a murderer. Why does Jericho St. James think he is?
I think about what Julia said. How what Jericho has on Carlton must be bad if Councilor Hildebrand allowed him to initiate The Rite. Could Carlton have committed such a thing as murder? No. Just no.
And what she said about him protecting me? That’s laughable. I need protecting from him. But she’s his mother. She’s not going to take my side.
I check my phone and finally I’m able to switch it on. It’s an older model and temperamental. I scroll down my short list of contacts and find Julia but her phone rings and rings and finally goes to voice mail.
Should I call Carlton? Warn him? Beg him to help me? But what was he planning for me? To marry me off to that disgusting old man? He couldn’t really do that to me, could he?
I pace some more, my gaze landing on the sandwich I barely ate three bites of. I should eat but can’t. I need to find him. Understand what the hell is going on. Although will he tell me?
Leontine’s words circle in my head.
“You’ll have my son’s protection. Remember that. And you need it, Isabelle Bishop. More than you know.”
What protection do I need? From whom? The only face that swims before me is Jericho St. James’s.
But then I see us on that chapel floor, me with my head thrown back, his mouth locked on my throat. Me coming.
Crap.
I decide I need to find him. Find out what the hell is going on. I half-expect the door to be locked when I turn the doorknob but it’s not, so I step out into the hallway. And the moment I do, I see him. And I freeze.
He’s just coming out of Angelique’s room. He pauses when he sees me. Her bedroom at the opposite end of the hallway so I can’t quite see his face, but I clear my throat and close my door behind me to wait for him. I won't cower. I can’t.
I watch as he walks toward me, his face its usual stony mask as he comes closer, and I can see his expression. I clear my throat when he’s a few feet from me and I open my mouth to speak but hesitate when his gaze shifts to my shirt. I’m very aware I’m not wearing a bra underneath but like he’s already said, it’s nothing he hasn’t seen before. Not that he can see anything. It’s not like he has x-ray vision. One eyebrow is raised when he looks back at me.
“You don’t have T-shirts without holes in them? Ones that fit you?”
“It’s my brother’s. Or it was.”
“Ah.” He studies me. “What are you doing outside of your room?”
