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I look at her for a long minute. She’s beautiful. So beautiful. And young. And she doesn’t deserve this.
I rub salve into the ink on her back. And this time when I turn her over and fuck her, I do it slowly, tasting every inch of her before sliding my length into her, taking my time to feel everything. Watching her face, memorizing the look of her, the feel of her. Tasting how she tastes when I kiss her mouth.
My thrusts are deep but measured, not meant to hurt, not this time. And as she comes, I draw back just enough to watch her because I know this moment is fleeting. I know it will be gone before either of us blinks. And I know the look in her eyes now, the hope inside them, I’ll extinguish it when she sees what I have planned next. Because it’s what I have to do. Because I wasn’t quite right about all things being a choice.
Some things aren’t choices at all.
Some are destiny.
And my destiny is to ruin hers.
36
Isabelle
I’m alone in his bed when I wake up. I glance at the clock. It’s a little after nine in the morning. I wonder when he slipped out. You’d think I’d notice it, feel the movement of the bed or something. Feel the loss of warmth. Because he held me last night. I fell asleep with my head against his chest.
I sit up, rub my face. What is wrong with me? What he did last night was terrifying. He was terrifying. And when I said what I said to him, when I slung my words to damage him, I almost didn’t recognize myself. That’s not who I am. I don’t try to hurt people no matter who they are.
But in this case, it wasn’t to hurt him. Not wholly, at least. It’s true what I said. I watched that sweet little girl fall asleep half leaning against the front door waiting for her daddy to come home and teach her how to swim like he promised he would. She wore her yellow bathing suit again with all those ruffles. It twists my heart even now to think of it.
She was quick to hide her tears when I asked her if she was all right before she went to bed. I can still hear myself making up an excuse for him. Telling her he must have been delayed at work.
What a messed-up situation this is. But I do know one thing. A parent, even one as little available to his daughter as Jericho St. James, is better than no parent.
I get up and go to my room to shower. I make a point of taking my birth control pill before I leave the bathroom to put on a loose-fitting dress because even though the nights are cooler, the days are still warm. I go downstairs and find Ezekiel sitting in the dining room reading a paper while drinking a cup of coffee. I haven’t seen him since the wedding. The marking.
I feel my face heat up at the memory of what he witnessed, me made to kneel, locked in that pillory, my dress torn to expose my back fully to be marked.
He puts his paper away and studies me.
I try for a smile and break eye contact as I move around the table to the one place still left untouched, mine I guess, and pick up the mug.
“Coffee or tea?” he asks, standing.
“Coffee please.”
He nods, picks up a carafe and pours for me. “Sit down and eat something,” he says before I can scurry back upstairs to hide in my room.
I bite my lip.
“Sit, Isabelle. I won’t bite.”
“Your brother said that once too,” I say, I don’t know why. I don’t wait for him to comment but pick up my bowl and load it with fruit and yogurt.
“I’m not my brother but you are right about him. He definitely bites,” he says and when I look at him, I find him smiling.
I can’t return that smile. I’m unsure what is going on.
He walks around my chair, and I find myself sitting very still when I feel the brush of his fingers on my shoulder.
“May I?”
I turn to look up at him.
“The mark. I’d like to see it.”
I hesitate. I’m pretty sure Jericho won’t want me to bare my back to his brother. I’m not sure I like it myself, the idea of anyone but Jericho seeing me, seeing it. But it feels awkward, so I lift my hair and set it over my shoulder. My back is bare just to my shoulder blades.
