“Are you trying to appear remotely threatening?” he asks. At least he’s forgotten about the music. “Because if so, you’re failing. Miserably.”
I stand up, walk toward him. I take his glass and set it down. “I’m tired. It’s been a really long day.”
He chuckles. “Longer for me,” he says, holding my gaze as he closes his hand over mine and relieves me of the knife. “Let me take that before you hurt yourself.”
“Does go to hell count as foul language?” I ask as he sets the knife down.
He considers. “Try me.”
I don’t.
He takes hold of my hands, shifts them behind my back and holds both in one of his. His grip isn’t tight, but I know it can be. His gaze moves over my face, hovering at my lips, then lower to the exposed skin of my chest before returning to my eyes.
“I like your eyes, Isabelle.”
I blink, unsure how to respond and look away.
“They’re beautiful. I like beautiful things.”
I force myself to look at him. To glare.
He grins. “And they’re very expressive. They make reading you very easy. Too easy.”
He’s right. I’ve never been very good at hiding my emotions. My thoughts. He touches his free hand to the collar of my shirt and pushes it over sightly.
“What I mean is,” he says, his touch feather light as he brushes my hair back from my shoulder to expose the scar. He leans closer, hovering so near I can feel his body heat as he lowers his mouth to that scar. I gasp when he traces the length of it with his tongue. That’s when his grip on my wrists tightens and I watch as he licks that line before closing his mouth over the thundering pulse at my neck, leaving my skin wet. He draws away to stand at his full height just inches from me. “I can tell from the look in your eyes that your pussy is wet.”
I swallow hard, fisting my hands although he can’t see them since they’re behind my back.
“Should I…” he trails off, his free hand moving to undo my jeans like earlier that day.
“Stop.”
He doesn’t but he brings his face closer, inhales deeply like he’s some animal and can scent me. And then he does it. Like earlier. He slides his hand into my panties. Unlike earlier, I feel myself moving toward him, my legs not closing, my body responding, again, to him. To his presence. His closeness. His touch.
He makes a sound as his thumb flicks my clit. I whimper and his eyes never leave mine. I want to tell him to stop. I want to scream it. I should. God. I need to! But all I do is stand there while his fingers play with me, while they dip inside me and turn circles around the hard nub of my clit, my legs trembling, his touch feeling good.
He leans close, his mouth brushing mine. “Say my name,” he says, his breath warm against my lips.
“I…”
“Say it and I’ll make you come.”
I shake my head, but my mouth opens and when it does, he kisses me. It’s light, just a brushing of lips on lips, the flick of a tongue, not deep. He stops, draws back to watch me.
“Please… I… Stop.”
I gasp when he pushes his fingers inside me and I rise on tiptoe. He pauses just for a second and his expression changes. He exhales, eyebrows coming together.
“Isabelle,” he starts, a knowing smile forming on his lips, thumb circling my clit. He lets go of my wrists and I set my hands on his shoulders and lean my forehead against his chest because it’s too much. Too hard. I want to come. I want him to make me come. When what I should want is for him to go. What I should feel is repulsion at his touch. But this is insanity. He is my enemy. He is a devil, a monster. A cruel jailor. I know this.
I squeeze my eyes shut and will myself to stop feeling. To think.
“Isabelle,” he repeats my name then brings his mouth to my ear. “Are you a virgin?” he whispers, and I hear the taunt in his tone, his words.
My head snaps up and I see how his eyes have gone dark, one ringed with silver, the other wholly black.
I don’t answer.
He clucks his tongue. “Are you?”
“Will you take it from me? Hold me down, force my legs open and take it?”
His fingers stop moving. “I’m not forcing you now, am I?” he asks, but his tone isn’t light anymore. And he’s right. He’s not holding me down. I’m holding on to him.
“Will you do that and say it’s because I’m a Bishop?” I press on because I have to.
He slips his hand out from inside my jeans and his eyes grow dark. It’s not arousal I see in them, though. It’s something else. Anger. Rage. He grips my upper arms painfully.
“You should learn the true history of your family rather than believe your own lies, Isabelle Bishop,” he says, my name like something terrible on his lips. Like something rotten.
“Will the fact that I’m a Bishop make it somehow better for you? Easier? Is that the point of this?”
He snorts. “You have no idea, do you?” he spits and leans his face so close, his eyes so full of malice that my entire body begins to shudder. He opens his mouth to speak, to curse me or declare his hate of me. I don’t know what, but then he draws back, shakes his head and tosses me onto the bed. For a brief moment, I think this is it. I think he’s really going to do it. Take what I don’t give.
I’m about to scream when he leans over me and clasps his hand over my mouth, muffling the sound when it finally comes.
“You have no idea.” He finally says and spins on his heel to leave.
15
Jericho
I sit in a corner table at the Cat House in IVI’s compound. The clock chimes and I look up to see it’s two in the morning. This place is alive though. Always.
The Cat House is one of the perks of being a member of The Society. Our own personal whore house, albeit as high end as they come, with the most beautiful of courtesans at our disposal.
I watch from my shadowed corner. See the men, some masked, some not. Most drunk by this point, having their little lap dances or their dicks sucked right out in the open. I never understand why they don’t go to the private rooms. But the women are paid to indulge any fantasy. Paid well. So, our wish is their command and if exhibitionism is the wish, well, it could be worse.
I should use one of them. Let off a little steam. I have in the past. But not a single one of the beauties catches my eye tonight.
A waitress returns to refill my empty glass.
“No,” I tell her and stand. I set a hundred-dollar-bill on the table, walk out through the courtyard and exit the compound. Dex is waiting beyond the gates with the car.
I’m not drunk but I’m in no shape to drive and although I slip into the front seat beside him, he knows I’m in no mood to talk.
Seeing Angelique like that in the pool today fucked with me. Instinct kicked in sending me diving into the water to rescue her. But she wasn’t drowning. She didn’t need rescuing. And neither did Isabelle when she went under. In fact, my dive was what sent her there. What sent my little girl into a panic.
I’ve protected Angelique all her life. No one knew of her existence apart from a handful of trusted staff and security. My mother thinks it’s damaged her. She should be with other children, not shut up in house after house with us. Only us. At least when I was around it was us. Mostly, it was her, though. That’s another thing. Angelique is terrified I’ll leave and not come back. And what Isabelle said hit a nerve.