9
Isabelle
The lightbulb swings with the jarring of the door against the doorframe. I hear the lock turn and listen for his retreating steps. I don’t cry out for him to come back. I’ve been robbed of my voice. But a few moments later, when the light settles, I walk to the door and try it. Locked tight. Am I safer for it? Will whatever it is I felt out there stay out there? On the other side of my locked door? Because I swear there’s something.
Christian used to laugh at how jumpy I’ve always been. He loved horror movies and I always watched them with him, even knowing I’d have nightmares later. He’d make a giant tub of popcorn and we’d sit under blankets and watch. He’d laugh while I covered my eyes at the worst moments. And for days after I’d swear I’d see ghosts or hear them. But it was always worth it. My brother and I were close, especially after we lost our parents. I miss him so much. It’s been three years and I still miss him every day.
I shudder with the damp cold typical of cellars and grab the shirt Jericho St. James dropped on the bed. Why did he leave it? It’s not as if it’s much protection against the cold. I hesitate for a moment but only a moment because being down here is fucking with me. I slide it over my head, tucking my arms into it. The sleeves come to my wrists only because he’d had them folded up to his elbows and the shirt itself reaches to mid-thigh. It’s still warm from him. It still smells like him.
The springs of the bed creak as I sit on the edge and draw my legs up. I hug my knees and am weirdly grateful he left his shirt. I don’t feel so alone. And I know how ridiculous that sounds. He hates me. I would be safer alone than I am with him. Didn’t he just prove that?
Heat flushes my face at what happened. How he held me against the wall. How he stripped me. How it felt when he touched me. I’m still damp between my legs, and I can’t even begin to process that. I tell myself it’s not arousal. It’s humiliation.
I push my fingers into my hair and pull at my scalp as I remember the rest of it. Like how I didn’t move when he told me not to move. Like how he didn’t exactly have to hold me down to rip off my clothes. How I didn’t fight. I should have. But when it comes to strength, he’ll win hands down. It made no sense for me to fight.
I picture that tattoo on his back. I only saw it for a moment, but I don’t think I’ll ever forget it. Two giant dragons coiled around one another. Fighting? I’m not sure. Embracing? Entwined in love maybe? I need to study it to know. I doubt I’ll get the chance and I can’t even believe I’m thinking about it. It spanned the whole of his back in vivid color, the muscle moving beneath the ink somehow making those dragons come to life.
I lean back against the wall, not sure I want to lie down on this mattress. He said he’d come back in the morning. It’s already late, isn’t it? When we left IVI it was after nine. Dinner is always served late there so maybe it’ll just be a few hours before he returns. Do I want him to return?
These thoughts circle for what seems like eternity, and I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep until the turning of the key in the lock wakes me some time later. I straighten up, wipe at the corners of my mouth and rub my eyes as the door opens carrying that chill draft with it, the lightbulb swaying on its wire. It’s the same feeling as last night. I didn’t imagine it. But whatever that chill is, it stayed out of my room until he returned. Is it attracted to him?
Jericho St. James looks freshly showered, hair still damp, face shaved clean. He’s dressed casually in dark blue jeans and a charcoal cashmere sweater. From the V-neck I see the creeping edges of the tattoo on his back.
He tucks his hands into his pockets. His sleeves are rolled up, so I see those tails again. This time, I note the watch, expensive, and the bracelet he wears on the same wrist. It’s too delicate for him. Doesn’t quite fit. But my gaze again moves to that ink and he stands there to let me take him in.
I feel my face flush and look away, embarrassed. I can’t seem to take my eyes off this man. I was used to how Carlton was. Domineering. Bullying maybe. But Jericho St. James is different than that. He is the definition of power. A force like a deadly storm.
“Good morning,” he says.
I don’t reply.
“Sleep well?” One corner of his mouth curves upward
“What do you think?” I ask. I’m exhausted, thirsty, my throat so dry I can barely swallow not to mention how cold I am.
“Would you like to spend two more nights down here?”
I fold my arms across my chest as a voice in my head tells me to tread carefully.
“Is your silence a yes? If so, I’ll…” he trails off and takes a step backward.
“No!” I jump off the bed. “I don’t want to be down here.” I grit my jaw but he’s waiting so I swallow the shredded remains of my pride. “Please.”
He smiles. “Better.” He steps aside and gestures to the hall.
I hesitate, knowing he could still be playing with me, but I have no choice. I walk past him, taking care not to touch him, which is hard considering his size. Once I’m in the hallway he captures my arm and turns me to face him.
“Not a sound, understand?”
“Why? So whoever else is upstairs doesn’t know you kidnapped me?”
He smiles. “Oh, they already know. But it’s early. My daughter is still sleeping.”
That takes me back. “Your…daughter?”
He gestures to the stairs. “Move.”
He has a child? Does that mean he has a wife? Is she lying in his bed now? Then why did he do what he did last night? Why strip me? Touch me? He was hard. I saw and felt it. Weirdly, this feels like a betrayal although I don’t know how it could. If anyone should feel betrayed it would be his wife.
I walk, glancing over my shoulder at him.
Maybe they have an open relationship? Maybe she doesn’t mind if he’s with other women?
But then I remind myself he wasn’t with me. He humiliated me. It was what he wanted to do, and he succeeded. That’s all.
I pause at the bottom of the stairs because the door above is open, and I see light.
He nods and I hurry up. Once we’re out in the hallway, I look around, see light coming from around a corner where I hear the sounds of pots and pans. Of water running. Someone lighting a gas stove. The normal noises of a normal household.
I wait as he closes and locks the steel door. I follow him back down the hallway Dex dragged me through last night. All the doors I pass are closed and I’m glad they’re all old, wooden doors, not steel. We reach the circular foyer and ahead of me I see the double front doors.
“Remember, if you run, you spend two more nights down there,” he says, not bothering to look at me as he begins to ascend the stairs.
I look at his back as he climbs, glance at the doors and I know there’s no point in running. The house is set on a huge parcel of land. It took several minutes for the Rolls Royce to make it from the gate to the circular drive. So I follow him up the stairs, the marble like ice under my feet. On the landing is a rich, deep royal blue runner to cushion the sound of his shoes and to provide me some protection against the cold. He turns left and I follow him, counting doors, six of them on this side of the staircase, before he reaches the double doors at the very end.