“I said stay,” I whisper against the jumping pulse at her neck, letting my breath tickle her, feeling the warm shudder of her skin against my lips.
A moment later, her palms are flat against the wall, and I look at the back of the dress. It’s a corset top held together by some sort of ribbon. Silk. I pull that ribbon to undo the bow and begin to unbind her. The corset was too tight. I can see how her skin has creased against the bonds of the dress.
“Please don’t,” she says, still not moving her hands.
“Shh.”
I swallow as I pull the top of the dress apart, see the bare skin of her back. The curve to her hips. My own breath is ragged. I hope she can’t hear that. I’m also glad she can’t see me as I tug the two sides wider, wide enough that I can push the dress down over her hips and let it drop to the floor.
Isabelle whimpers, shuddering, and drags her arms down a little.
“No,” I tell her, and she stops their progress. She’s obedient. Probably because she’s terrified. I know what she’s thinking I’ll do. And there’s a part of me that hates myself for it. Hates that I’m letting her think it. Only a monster could.
I fist my hands, close my eyes, and clear my head.
She is a Bishop.
She does not deserve your pity.
“Nor shall she have it,” I say under my breath and look her over. See the jagged scar running down her spine. Another flaw. One I have to force myself to look away from. I study the contours of her body instead, the taut muscle, the narrowing to her waist, the swell of her hips, her long, slender legs, ankles tickled by the feathers of her dress pooling around her feet.
“Another mark,” I say, my voice hoarse as I bring the tips of two fingers to the top of that scar. I can feel the thickened tissue beneath my fingers, hear her hiss of breath as I trace the rough line of it. The skin over her clavicle was stitched. The doctor did a shit job of it. This has no stitch marks. “This one?” I ask.
“Fell,” she says.
“You fall a lot.”
She remains silent.
There’s more to this story. But tonight isn’t the time to hear it. And besides, I don’t care.
“You should be more careful,” I say and slip my fingers into the band of her panties to push them down, letting them drop once they’re over the swell of her hips.
She gasps, is about to move to cover herself but I close my hands over hers and press against her. Can she feel the length of my cock against her back? Fuck.
“Don’t. Move.”
She turns her head a little and I see the wet skin around her eyes.
“Please don’t… Please…” her voice breaks.
“Be still. I’m only looking,” I say quickly, wondering why I do it. Why I give her any comfort. “But you must be still, or I’ll do more than look.”
There’s no point in fighting me. I have proven that already. She nods. I draw back and my breath catches at the sight of her standing against the wall, arms raised, her naked body exposed.
Fuck.
“Turn around.” I don’t sound like myself.
She glances over her shoulder before slowly turning. She doesn’t know what to do with her arms and instinctively moves to cover herself.
“No, Isabelle.”
She drops her arms to her sides and I let my eyes feast. Her hair is still over her shoulder obscuring one breast. It reaches to her waist.
“Push your hair back. I want to see.”
Her throat works to swallow as she raises her arms to obey me. I see the trembling of her hands. The sight makes me harder.
Her nipples are taut, breasts small but high and full. Less than a handful but I’ll manage. Her stomach is tight and her pussy shaved bare so I can see the slit of her sex between her legs. Fuck me, I can’t remember the last time I was so fucking hard for a woman.
I force myself to look at her eyes and find hers on my length. I wait, give her a chance to take it in, let her know I caught her looking when she drags her gaze back up to mine. I drag in a breath and wonder if I were to slip my fingers between her legs if she’d be wet.
I can smell her. A hint of arousal beneath that fear.
A low groan rumbles against my chest and she presses her back into the wall.
“Pick up your dress and panties.”
Confused, she steps out of them and lowers herself down, keeping one eye on me as she gathers them up.
“Shoes too.” They’re closer to me but rather than coming nearer, she sets her bare knees on the threadbare, disgusting rug and extends her arm to snatch them up. I watch her ass spread, wishing I was behind her to see more.
I adjust my dick. Tell it to be patient. It will come. She is mine. No need to rush.
She stands up, hugging her things to her body and I see the goosebumps across her skin. It’s cold down here. Even on the hottest summer day, it’s always cold and dank in this cellar. I remember it from when Zeke, Zoë and I would play down here before our father put the steel door in place. Before he locked it. Not that Zeke or I would ever come down here again after what happened, at least not when we were young. I wonder if he has since.
I blink, see her watching me, her head tilted a little. I have to be careful around this one. She’s observant. Too much so. I let my gaze drop to her breasts as I unbutton the top few buttons of my shirt.
“You said—”
Her eyes grow wide and she hugs the dress to herself as if it could protect her from me. I don’t answer her but pull the shirt over my head and toss it onto the mattress. It’s a kindness. She’d better be fucking grateful.
Her eyes dart across my chest, my stomach, mouth growing wider at the ink curling around my shoulders. More of the dragons. But she hasn’t seen anything yet.
I take the sheets of parchment from the bed and roll them up in one hand. “Hand me your clothes.” I hold out a hand.
“You said you were just looking,” her voice is barely a whisper.
“Hand them to me.”
She extends the clothes toward me as a tear slides from each eye.
I take the clothes and shoes and watch the path of those tears. “You’ll spend the night here. Your punishment for running. I’ll be back for you tomorrow morning. If you try to run again, you’ll spend two more nights. Are you following my math?” I ask more firmly than I need to. “Or do I need to dumb it down.”
She nods.
“Dumb it down or you understand?”
She grits her teeth. “I understand.” Her eyes dart around the creepy room and although there is fear, I also see relief in them. Relief I won’t touch her.
Should I tell her the reprieve is temporary?
I don’t. Another kindness. Instead, I turn and walk to the door, barely pausing when I hear her audible gasp at the sight of my back. I step out into the chilly corridor, closing and locking the door behind me. I ignore the ghost that trails me back up the stairs. She’ll stop at the steel door. I don’t know why she doesn’t leave the cellar. Doesn’t return to the happier places.
Happier. I think sometimes happiness is erased from memory. In a way, it’s more painful to remember those moments. To know what you lost.
I shake my head and drag that heavy door closed. It takes all I have to lock it again.
For Angelique, I tell myself. To keep her safe. I don’t ever want her going down there. Ever.