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“You’re hurting me now.”
“Am I? A little spanking is not what she endured.”
“No. He bled her. He whipped her until she bled.”
“Right. I’m sure he ripped her back open.”
“And you’re holding that same whip.”
“Am I using it?” he rubs the space he just spanked, his touch almost tender.
I shake my head, drop it to the altar because I can’t do this anymore. I can’t.
“I don’t know up from down with you,” I say, my voice a whisper. “I don’t understand what’s happening. What to believe. Who to trust.”
“I’ll tell you, Isabelle. You choose me. You trust me.”
“You have me chained, Jericho. Literally chained. How can I trust you?”
He grips my hair, lifts my head, and turns it, forcing me to look at him. “My chains will keep you safe. My chains will keep our baby safe.”
Our baby.
My God. What a mess we’ve made.
I exhale, tears pouring from my eyes, my lips salty with them. He kisses me and I think he must taste them too, those tears. It’s what he wanted when he took me. To watch me cry. To bleed me.
I hear the whip drop to the floor and he’s behind me, pushing the hair off my neck, kissing along my shoulder, my jaw. He nudges my legs wider and a moment later, he’s inside me.
“Trust me, Isabelle. You need to trust me. To choose me.”
Choose him.
He thrusts into me, wrapping one arm around my middle to lay the flat of his hand over my belly, over our baby. The other he slips between my legs, expert fingers finding my clit, knowing just how to manipulate it.
“I want to,” I tell him. It’s true. I do want to.
“Then do. I won’t hurt you. Haven’t I already told you that? I choose you.”
I choose you.
He draws his arms to either side of my own and a moment later, I’m free of the chains. He’s turning me, holding me. I cling to him, my back to the altar, my legs wrapped around him, our mouths locked, eyes open.
“I won’t hurt you,” he says again.
“You promise?”
“I promise. You just have to choose me. Be mine. Only mine.”
I want to believe him. I need to. Because this is too hard. And so I nod, closing my eyes, and holding tight to him as the first wave of orgasm comes. I drop my head into the crook of his neck, his skin salty against my tongue. I moan, coming and feel him come, feel him shudder. I think about this act in this chapel, this holy place. I think about Draca and Nellie. What he did to her in this same place. And I think maybe one cancels out the other. Love canceling out hate.
Love.
Love overwriting hate.
Choose me... I choose you.
I feel fresh tears slip from my eyes. Warm and wet and sad. Because I think I love him. I know I do. And I also know that when he says he won’t hurt me, it has nothing to do with my heart. I am chained to him. I am his prisoner. His. But there’s too much history between us for anything close to love. Centuries worth. And even if he wants to choose me, I don’t think Jericho St. James can put his vengeance aside to love me.
21
Jericho
I don’t bother to knock before I walk into Zeke’s office after taking Isabelle to bed. I can’t think about what happened between us tonight. Can’t process it. I meant what I said. I won’t hurt her. I won’t let anyone else hurt her either. I choose her. But that choice is wrought with too much history. Too much tragedy.
The night I took her it was my intention to use her for my vengeance. But everything is different. Every single thing. And I don’t look at her like I should. Like I meant to. I care about her, and it has nothing to do with her carrying my baby. It’s her.
Zeke pushes back from his desk and looks at me like he was expecting this.
“What were you doing out there with my wife?”
“What do you think I would be doing?”
“I don’t know, Zeke. You tell me. Because you keep a lot of secrets.”
He snorts, gets to his feet. “Isn’t that the trademark of our family?” he says, moving around the desk to stand inches from me. He has never been cowed by me. I sometimes wonder if he wouldn’t like a fight. Get some of that old anger out. My brother has always been my equal in size and strength. At least since we were adults. He was skinnier than me when he was a kid. Like he and Zoë seemed to split the weight between them until they were about fourteen. That’s when he started to grow into himself. Zoë remained petite, developing slowly. She was still a girl when she died.
