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I don’t think as I stalk back to the house. I barely recall the walk. Don’t remember climbing the stairs to my room. I do remember my irritation at finding it empty. Although I don’t think I instructed her to be in my bed.
I push through the connecting door and when I see her comfortably asleep on the bed, I lose my shit. The growl that comes from the cavern of my chest startles her awake, putting her instantly on alert. I’m not sure if she can see my face, but she must feel the rage rolling off me and the danger it presents to her.
When I take one step toward the bed, she lets out a little scream and stumbles off the other side, falling to the floor as her legs tangle in the sheets.
“What did you do?” I ask, taking a step with each word.
She scrambles back on hands and feet like a crab. She can’t get away from me fast enough. But she won’t be getting away. Not tonight.
I reach down, grab hold of her arm, and haul her to her feet. When she opens her mouth to scream, I pull her to my chest and clamp my hand over it.
“Shut. Up.”
She struggles, shaking her head, the sounds she’s making muffled. When she bites my finger, I pinch her nose with thumb and forefinger, keeping my palm over her mouth. Her fingernails draw blood as she scratches my forearm when she can’t get air and I tighten the arm I have across her stomach.
“Shut. Up. Do you hear me?”
She nods, whimpers. Drops her hold on my forearm. That may not be a conscious choice, though. She needs air.
I let go of her nose, loosen my hand over her mouth. She sucks a breath in, and I lift her off her feet to walk her to the door. There, I let her down and push her against it. I make a fist in her hair and turn her face, pressing her cheek to the wood.
“You make a sound, a single fucking sound, and you’ll be sorry. You get me?”
She doesn’t open her mouth. Just nods frantically, eyes all wide horror.
I draw her back by her hair, open the door and march her to the stairs and down. She’s got hold of my hand and is quiet as she can be although she’s a sniffling, crying mess. I’m sure my hand pulling her hair hurts as I navigate her by that fistful to the bottom of the stairs where remarkably she doesn’t fall. I walk her toward the kitchen, through it and out the door I’d left open in my hurry. I make sure to close it now.
The night is damp, as usual, but it isn’t raining. All I hear are the sounds of insects and night creatures and Isabelle’s labored breathing as I shift my grip to her arm, walking her to the cemetery. She’s muttering something, maybe begging me to slow down. I don’t know. I can’t hear her. Blood rings in my ears and the closer we get the angrier I become.
How dare she?
How dare she betray me in my own house?
She knows where we’re going. She knows what this is about and when we get to that flowerbed over the Bishop grave, I drop her to her knees.
She lands on all fours and takes a minute to sit on her heels. She looks around her then up at me. She’s shivering. Wearing that goddamn T-shirt again.
But it’s not the shirt that ignites the anger inside me into a red-hot flame. It’s the look in her eyes. Her resistance.
“What. Did. You. Do?” I demand.
She gets up, feet sinking into the muddy mess, yellow petals and blades of green grass she’d torn our earlier sticking to her feet, shins and knees.
“I cleaned up Nellie Bishop’s grave. It was long overdue, don’t you think, you piece of shit?”
She shoves at me. I don’t know if she really thinks she’ll budge me. When I don’t move, she does it again.
“Me, a piece of shit?” I ask her, walking her backwards until her ass hits the grave marker. I lean into her forcing her to bend backwards as her hands come to my chest. “What are you then, Bishop?”
“You’re drunk, Jericho. I can smell it on you. Get the hell away from me.” She shoves again.
Jericho. It’s the first time she’s used my name without me having told her to say it and for some reason it makes me stop. I look down at her, blue eyes almost black in this night. Cheeks flushed. I glance farther down to the part of her chest exposed by the too-wide neck of the worn shirt. It must be years old. I look at her thighs, her bare feet. I wrap an arm around her and with the other reach under her shirt to take hold of her panties and pull them down her legs.
“What are you doing?” she cries out.
I ignore her, step on the white silk that slips off her feet when I lift her to sit on the top of the wide stone marker.
“I’m teaching you what a Bishop means in this house,” I tell her as I unbuckle my belt, undo the button of my pants, the zipper. “I’m teaching you what you’re good for,” I say as I keep one hand around her back and use the other to lift her thigh. I bend my knees just a little, just enough, and wedge myself between her legs. She gasps when I push into her and I swear that first moment, that warm, tight passage is like a fucking homecoming when it should be anything but.
