I don’t move and all I hear is the pumping of blood through my veins, my ears ringing with adrenaline.
It’s a game. He’s playing a game. The voice inside my head screams. Every logical molecule of my being knows it.
“Go on. You want to.”
He’s goading me. He leans closer, cheek alongside mine, scruff brushing my skin, breath a whisper along my ear. “But if you do, know when I catch you, I will punish you. And I will catch you.”
I shudder at his words.
Fight or flight.
I know I will lose both fight and flight, but I’m not thinking anymore. Instinct has taken over. Survival is the goal, so I choose flight and my legs move. I spring forward knowing he’ll catch me, knowing I won’t make it or if I do, there will be a trap waiting for me. But I run anyway, and I hear his laughter, or is it a growl? The low rumble of a beast springing to action as his prey does exactly what he expects, what he wants, and the chase is on.
I sprint across the bedroom, muscles moving in a familiar motion. I’m a runner, but this is unfamiliar terrain, and when I step out into the hall, I pause because it’s even darker than it was earlier.
He doesn’t come after me, not right away. I know because I hear his chuckle. When I glance back, I see he hasn’t moved but the moment his eyes meet mine, he takes a step.
I bolt. He’s behind me but he’s in no rush. He’s taking his time. I run toward the stairs. I know the corridor runs farther past the stairs, but it’s too dark and I’m too scared to go there.
When I get to the stairs, he’s still down the hall. I can make it. Thirteen steps. I can make it. I take hold of the rail and run up, tripping in my haste when he calls my name, voice calm and taunting. I’m almost to the top though and I don’t need to look back to know he isn’t sprinting to catch up with me.
It’s a trap. A game. An excuse to punish me. I know it. I know it before my hand closes around the doorknob, know it before I try the door. I know it’s locked. And no matter how much I pull and pound, it won’t give.
A moment later powerful arms wrap around my middle. He lifts me effortlessly, carrying me back down the stairs, arms trapped, my back pressed to his hard chest. I scream. I scream and fight, half-crazed with fright as he carries me calmly, almost patiently, back down the corridor. That light at the opposite end somehow, impossibly, flicking on again, it, too, taunting me, blinking, as if watching the devil drag me back into that room.
He drops me onto the bed, and I bounce, the springs whining. He closes the door and not a hair is out of place, not a drop of sweat beads his forehead as he pushes his hands into his pockets, watching me. His expression dark and curious and unhurried as I get back to my feet and wipe my eyes.
“Why are you doing this to me?” I scream the words, but my voice has dried up, my throat like sandpaper.
He shrugs a shoulder. “Because I can. Now strip.”
8
Jericho
She can’t be more than five-and-a-half feet barefoot. I like this difference in size between us. Liked the feel of her slight weight against me when I carried her down the stairs and back into this room. Her cell for the night. I appreciate how her narrow shoulders tremble as her gaze shifts from my eyes to the ink on my forearms. Inevitably they move to a point anywhere in the room. Anywhere but on me. Though each time she is drawn back. Each time she begins the cycle anew, vivid blue eyes growing more and more panicked each time they meet mine, her entire body shuddering as she hugs herself tight.
“Isabelle,” I start, leaning on one leg, cocking my head to the side as I study her. As I watch the heave of her breasts above the dress. “What did I just say?”
She seems to shrink back into herself even more. She’s already cornered herself twice now and I admit, letting her run was cruel. Toying with her wasn’t nice. But I’m not nice and I wanted to watch.
No, not just to watch. It’s not that simple. Those last few minutes in the study rattled me. The exchange with Zeke. Old feelings I thought were buried deep rising back to the surface. How does he truly feel now, years later? Has he forgiven me? Because he hasn’t forgotten. That’s obvious. But I can’t exactly blame him for that, can I?
My mother is another story. She won’t like what I have to do to Isabelle. She already doesn’t. But she won’t interfere, either.
I shake my head to clear it. I need to focus. Need to deal with Isabelle Bishop now because she’ll meet my daughter tomorrow. And I need to get her in line before that. I will do what I need to do to protect Angelique. And I can’t care about the cost to the Bishop trembling before me.
“Isabelle?” I raise my eyebrows.
She squeezes her eyes shut, presses the heels of her hands to her eyes and I watch her drag in a deep breath. She’s steeling herself. Good girl. When she opens those eyes again, she has mascara smeared across her skin. And the blue of those eyes is like blazing shards of glass. Christ. She’s fucking beautiful.
“Why?” she asks, voice coming across stronger than earlier.
“Why what?” I ask, aware she can hear the taunt in my tone. It only makes her angrier and I’m entertained.
“Why me? Why this? What did I do to you?”
“Fair questions,” I say, turning a circle around the tiny room, noting the cobwebs in the corner. The bare, stained mattress on the rickety bed frame. I pick up the sheet of parchment that had fallen and set it with the others on top of the bed. When I look back she’s folded her arms across her chest. “Why not you?”
Her eyebrows furrow. It’s not what she expected. “Carlton did something to you.”
It’s a statement, not a question. And it isn’t what I expect. My jaw tenses and I know she sees it. I see the way her eyes shift, how her back straightens just a little.
I take my hands out of my pockets and step toward her. Her shoulders curl in protectively. I smile, take her wrists, and draw her folded arms to her sides. I look at her mouth and I wonder if she realizes she licks her lips when I do. I let my gaze drop farther to the swell of her breasts and she tries to pull her wrists free. I don’t let her. Instead, I watch her as I slowly turn her to face away from me.
“I want your hands on the wall,” I tell her, raising her arms above her head, pressing her palms to the cool stone. I don’t let go of her wrists as I take her in, her shoulders tensed, skin stretched tight, shoulder blades protruding. I hold both wrists in one hand and with the other, brush her waist-length black hair over one shoulder to bare her back.
She sucks in a breath at my touch. That sound, the tremble of her body when I bring my nose to her pulse and take a deep breath in, makes my dick hard. My own breath is short and she’s not even naked yet. I swallow, catalog her scent. Springtime and innocence camouflaging acrid fear. Barely.
I run my chin over the curve of her neck, and she whimpers. I draw back to look at how her pale olive skin reddens where the stubble irritated it then lean my mouth to her ear.
“Don’t move,” I instruct as I slide my hands down over her arms, watching goosebumps rise in their wake, fingertips feeling the contour of long limbs, slender muscle.
When I lift my fingers from her, she fists her hands, and I can almost hear the battle she must be having. Stay or move? Do as she’s told or fight?