I stand up. “It doesn’t matter. None of it matters anymore.”
“What do you mean?”
“I think she’s pregnant.”
He doesn’t say anything, just watches me.
“I’ll know for sure in a few days.”
“Is she aware?”
I shake my head. “As far as she knows she’s been taking her daily birth control.”
“But she hasn’t.”
“I swapped the pills out.”
“Jesus.” He just looks at me like he can’t believe it and I turn away from his accusatory gaze. “She’ll hate you, you know that, don’t you?”
My chest tightens. “It doesn’t matter,” I say, my voice robotic. It wasn’t supposed to matter. Not in the beginning.
“Because you’ll have what you need to move to the next step of your plan.”
“Taking the Bishop inheritance.”
He snorts, shakes his head like he can’t believe this.
I walk to the desk, grip the edges of it. “He killed her.”
“Do you see what you’re doing?” he asks, tilting his head to the side. “Do you see that you’re destroying a life? And not just one.”
I draw in a tight breath.
He stands up. “So what’s your plan, big brother? You’ve taken the girl. Married her. Put your child inside her. What now? What happens after she gives birth?”
I grit my teeth, turn, and walk to the window.
“Take the child and bury Isabelle beside Nellie Bishop?” he asks.
That was the plan. Originally. When Isabelle Bishop was just a name.
“Find some flimsy explanation for Angelique who has grown to love Isabelle by the way.”
Love.
“Let me ask you one more question because if there’s one thing I don’t want it’s a repeat of the past.”
Recycle an ugly past. Carlton Bishop’s words.
I turn to my brother. “What do you mean?”
“I mean when Carlton Bishop finds out, given what he’s tried to do, what he’s succeeded in doing, how can you think he won’t try to hurt her again? Or worse?”
45
Isabelle
I’m getting sick in Jericho’s bathroom the next afternoon when there’s a knock on the door. Someone rattles the handle and I thank goodness for the lock.
“Isabelle?” It’s Leontine.
“I’ll be right there,” I say, reaching up to flush the toilet and sitting back against the tub, the tiles cool beneath my bare thighs.
“Are you all right?” she asks. “Open the door. I brought you up some toast and ginger ale.”
“I’m not hungry.” How can she think I want to eat?
I push the hair off my forehead. It’s sticking. Do most people break a sweat when they throw up? It’s been so long since I’ve had a bug I can’t remember.
I drag myself to my feet and run the tap to wash my face with icy water then stand back to look at my reflection. I look terrible. Exhausted and gaunt. I haven’t been able to eat much the last few days. Maybe week. It shows and not in a good way.
“Isabelle. I’m calling a doctor.”
“I’m fine,” I say, hurrying to dry my hands and unlock the door. I open it to find Leontine looking more worried than I’ve ever seen her. She stands back when she sees me, looks me over. I’m wearing one of Jericho’s T-shirts but am naked otherwise. Thankfully the shirt comes to about mid-thigh. It was the closest thing to me when I woke up and felt the vomit coming so I grabbed it and put it on. It still smells like him.
“You’re not well.”
“Just a bug. I’m sure it’ll be over in a day or two.” I look at the unmade bed just beyond her and want nothing more than to crawl back into it. I feel so tired and just wrung out.
“Come on,” she says and takes my arm. “Just eat some toast. You’ll feel better.”
I look at the toast and sit on the edge of the bed.
“I’m fine, really. I need to shower. I promised Angelique I’d help her fix her book and I overslept.” I’ve been sleeping longer than usual. It’s not like me.
“She’ll understand. Eat. I’ll call a doctor.”
“If I eat it, you’ll leave me alone?”
She sighs but nods.
“I’m fine. Really. It’s nothing.” I pick up the toast and bite into it, managing two bites. “See. Fine.” I take another bite. “Just please tell Angelique I’ll be there as soon as I can.” It takes all my strength to hurry across the room and go into my own bedroom through the adjoining door. I lean against the closed door once I’m alone, my hand on my stomach, waiting until the wave of nausea passes to move.
I walk across the room to the bathroom where once I’m inside, I lock the door. I switch on the shower and strip off Jericho’s shirt, inhaling the scent of him as I pull it over my head. Wondering what the fuck I’m thinking when I catch myself.
Last night was strange. All of it. From Angelique considering me her mom now that I’m married to her dad, to Jericho losing his shit when he overheard her saying it. To that pillory and to what happened there.
I really think his intention was to punish me for Angelique’s comment. As if I can control that. I understand his jealousy of my relationship with his daughter. She trusts me. And although she’s only known me for a little while, I’m here, a constant in her life. Her father is still unreliable. One swimming lesson isn’t going to change five years of history.
But when we got home. Wait. No. Not home. When we got back and I said I was hungry, he made me a sandwich. He wouldn’t let me do it myself. Okay, don’t go overboard. It was buttered bread. He probably just didn’t want me passing out in that pillory. That would ruin his fun.
My mind wanders to the night I had the nightmare. To how he held me. Anchored me to him. But I shake my head, shake off the memory.
The memory of what happened with the pillory sends heat coursing through me and this time when my stomach flips, it’s not nausea.
I smear toothpaste on my toothbrush and brush my teeth as I step into the shower.
What we did last night was different than I ever would have expected. The thought of how he took me and how I liked it, how much I liked it, I don’t know. I should be humiliated, right? He locked me in that pillory and then took me the way he did. How debasing is that?
I came hard, though.
Although I have no doubt he can make that an unpleasant experience, too.
But that’s the thing. This is where I’m stuck. It’s like the sandwich. Like him whipping his own thigh with the belt rather than hurting me. Like him getting me a glass of water and holding me after my nightmare.
He may want to be a devil to me but he’s struggling to keep up the façade. He takes care not to hurt me. More care than I’ve felt in the last three years living in the house where, according to at least half of my blood, I belong. Not Julia, not Carlton, no one since Christian died has made me feel like they would put my needs above theirs. And Jericho has.
And I remember what I said last night.
I remember the moment the words were out. I don’t think he heard me. Or maybe he thought, like I did myself, that it was just a mix up. Me losing control of my thoughts in the heat of the moment. Me panting for him to make me come like only he can make me come.