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“He didn’t touch me,” I hurry to say.
Ezekiel releases me. Smiles. “I’m not afraid of my brother, sweetheart.”
“Sweetheart?” Jericho gets in Ezekiel’s face, his big body nudging me aside. “Maybe you should be,” Jericho tells him.
“Relax,” Ezekiel says, his expression and body language confirming he’s not afraid. But he is ready to do battle. I wonder if this is about Kimberly. If this is a years’ old battle that will happen whether it’s tonight or another night. Or if it’s truly about me. If he feels that possessive about me. But why would he? I’m a means to an end. It’s Kimberly he loved.
Kimberly he loved.
I feel my forehead crease as I look to the stone floor, my gaze landing on the carving of Draca’s name on his grave. To Mary’s. I think about how much he loved her. What he did to avenge her.
I shake my head at the direction my thoughts take. Jericho St. James does not love me. This isn’t even about love. Not for either of us. So why do I feel that tightening in my chest?
“It’s just an expression,” Ezekiel says, drawing my attention back to the moment. He removes Jericho’s hand from his wrist. “You and I need to talk.”
“Yeah. We do. But first I need to deal with my wife.”
I find myself taking a step away at his sideways glance.
Ezekiel glances at me too, but only briefly, then turns to his brother. “Don’t punish her. We weren’t here together. I surprised her.”
“Whether or not I punish my wife is not your concern.”
I put my hand against my stomach to stop the flutter of anticipation of what’s to come.
“Take it out on me. Not her,” Ezekiel says.
“Get out.”
Ezekiel opens his mouth, but I reach my hand to his arm to stop him. “Go. It’s okay,” I say.
A rattle like that of a snake warning of impending attack comes from Jericho’s chest. It takes all I have to steel myself. To stand up tall even if I still come to the middle of their chests.
“I’m not scared of him either,” I say to Ezekiel even though my eyes are locked with Jericho’s.
“That was a mistake,” Jericho says and takes my arm. “Get out, Zeke,” he hisses the words, never looking away from me.
Ezekiel doesn’t move and he doesn’t reply right away. But then he glances at Draca’s book on the altar and it’s as if he understands something because his posture changes. He shakes his head, grips Jericho by the collar and forces him off me. “Don’t be a fucking idiot,” he tells him.
“Get the fuck out,” Jericho tells him.
“If you’re planning to do what I think you’re planning to do then no. I won’t allow it.”
“You won’t allow it?”
“No. I won’t.”
“She’s not yours.”
“No, she’s not. But if you’re going to play that idiotic game our ancestor played—”
“It won’t go that far,” Jericho cuts him off.
There’s a long moment of silence, the tension so thick it’s almost hard to breathe around it.
“If it does, I’ll fucking kill you,” Ezekiel says.
“A Bishop coming between us,” Jericho says, his words wounding me in a way they shouldn’t.
“Don’t be stupid, Jericho. Don’t fuck this up,” Ezekiel says.
“I said it won’t go that far,” Jericho repeats tightly.
Ezekiel studies him, then glances at me, hesitation clear in his eyes. I want to tell him to stay. Not to leave me here with my husband. My own husband. But he does. And he should. Because Jericho is right. Whatever Ezekiel is warning him about isn’t his to deal with. It’s ours. Mine and Jericho’s. And I know in that moment that what happens next, what he does or doesn’t do will change things for us. It will change everything.
20
Isabelle
“Strip.”
He releases me, walking around the altar. It’s pitch black so I’m not sure what he’s doing. But then I hear the rattle of chains and remember the passage in Draca’s diary.
“Nothing happened. He didn’t do anything. I didn’t,” I hurry to say as Jericho walks back into the candlelight.
He steps before me. “Strip,” he repeats then walks around the other side. I know what he’s doing when I hear that same sound. Another game.
No, not a game. A punishment.
He means to punish me like Draca St. James punished Nellie Bishop.
I break out in a sweat, unable to move, or breathe when he comes around the corner. I suck in a breath when I see the braided handle of the whip in his hand, the long, thin tails that my ancestor endured. He places it on the altar as if that cruel thing was an offering to Draca.
I need to run. I need to run right now. But I just stand there and watch him as he takes off his jacket, folds it over the back of a pew then rolls up the sleeves of his shirt.
