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“I hate you.”
“Again or…” I let my words drift.
“Let me go.”
“Are you going to do it?”
“Let me go and I will,” she says, wriggling to get free.
“Just to be sure,” I say, smacking her ass one more time before releasing her.
She stumbles to her feet.
I remain where I am and watch as she takes two steps away and reaches under her dress. Her eyes are locked on me, hair a little out of place, hate in her eyes. She tugs at the panties. They get caught on a heel and she hops, catching herself on the edge of the vanity. I try not to laugh as she mutters under her breath and finally steps out of them. She then throws them at me, and they hit me square in my face.
“Happy?” she asks. “Pervert.”
I take the tiny black strip and stand up.
“I am happy, thank you for asking.” I move to her, watch her back away as her eyes grow wide. I grip a handful of loose hair not caring if I mess it up. “You throw anything at me again and we’ll have another conversation with you across my lap, am I clear?”
She grits her teeth.
“Am I?” I ask with a tug.
“Yes,” she hisses through her teeth.
“Good girl,” I tell her, releasing her and stepping back. I watch her as I bring her panties to my nose and to her horror, I inhale. “I’m right, aren’t I? Our little tête-à-tête got you hot and bothered.”
“You’re an asshole, Jericho St. James.”
“That I am,” I say with a chuckle before tucking them into my pocket and taking her arm. “Shall we? We’re running late.”
20
Jericho
When I walk into the Red Room with Isabelle on my arm, all heads turn. We do make a striking couple, I have to say. Young, beautiful, fragile Isabelle on the arm of a devil such as me. Two half-breeds in the eyes of The Society, my father having bought our way into the ranks of Sovereign Sons and her mother most likely having been raped by a Bishop.
Carlton is staring daggers from a corner where he is holding court with the cream of Society crop. I smile, tug Isabelle closer.
“Smile, sweetheart, or someone may get the idea you’re unhappy to be on my arm.”
“I am unhappy,” she says, but then someone waves from across the room and I feel Isabelle’s excitement as she raises her hand in greeting.
I glance at her, but she’s quick to school her features so I follow her gaze to the woman who is now making her way through the crowd toward us. Julia Bishop. Her cousin and single mom of four-year-old Matthew Bishop. She lives in the Bishop house. Another stray relative Carlton took in.
Her perfume precedes her, the cloying scent turning my stomach. She’s a few years older than Isabelle. Twenty-four if I remember correctly. She’s attractive, there’s no denying that, but there’s something calculating about her. Even the way she extends her hand to introduce herself to me has been practiced.
“Hi. I’m Julia, Isabelle’s cousin. You must be Jericho St. James.”
I look at her extended hand, then to her face. Her smile is wide, radiant. And rehearsed. I can play that game too, so I smile, take her hand.
“Enchanted,” I say. I’m not. But I am surprised when in my periphery I see Isabelle turn a curious glance my way.
“I’ve been trying to get hold of my cousin but just realized her phone is sitting on her nightstand out of charge and since I didn’t have your phone number, well, I’m just glad to see you’ve let her out of the lair tonight.”
This one’s something. Before I can respond I see Zeke. Beside him is Marco, the right-hand-man of the man I came to meet with. I relax my hold on Isabelle.
