More.
Yeah, I know. Kimberly was more to him once upon a time. Her falling in love with me was not something either of us had planned. Neither had consciously wanted or sought it. But it happened and my brother and I moved past it. I think we did, at least. Although there were some tough months, especially when she started to show.
Zeke and I watch each other as images of the past pass like a slideshow through my mind. Is he thinking the same things? Watching that same slideshow play out? Does he blame me? I blame myself. And hell, maybe I deserve his blame too. She died because of me. He had warned me, too. Being with me wouldn’t be safe for her. Just like I warned Dante Grigori not too long ago that the woman he was in love with was in danger simply for his affection.
“I’m sorry,” I tell Zeke. “Every fucking day.”
“I know.” He drinks another sip and it’s a long time before he speaks. “She’s young.”
Change of topic. He’s talking about Isabelle Bishop.
“An adult,” I clarify.
“Technically. She’s also twelve years your junior.”
“And most importantly, she’s a Bishop.” I swallow the last of my drink and set the tumbler down. “You’re not growing a heart for the Bishops, are you? Overwriting Kimberly’s memory?”
His jaw tightens. “I’m just telling you she’s young and if you didn’t see it, I can also tell you from the few moments I spent in the same room with the girl, that she’s no match for you.”
Something about the comment gets my hackles up. I straighten, step toward him. He narrows his gaze infinitesimally, cocking his head to the side, waiting for my reaction.
“Is she a better match for you, then?” I ask.
“Are you fucking serious?”
“Is that what this is?” I continue. I don’t know why.
“Get your head out of your ass, brother. She’s barely a woman. And I know you. I have some idea what you’re planning.”
“Do you? What am I planning then?”
“There’s only one thing that makes sense.”
I raise my eyebrows. Give nothing away.
“I’m just saying she’s young. You want to bury her brother. I get that. Are you willing to destroy an innocent girl to do it?”
“She’s a fucking Bishop. There is no such thing as an innocent Bishop.”
“And how do you plan to explain it all to your daughter? Have you considered Angelique?”
“I’ll handle it. You don’t have to worry about Angelique. She’s my first priority.”
“Is she?”
Fury burns inside me. “You do not get to question that,” I bark through gritted teeth.
“She’s my niece,” he says, setting his drink down and stepping toward me. “She’s my first priority too. And I think you’re making a mistake. I think something about this girl has caught your eye. Just don’t let your need to wet your dick cloud your priorities.”
I grab him by the collar. “Don’t you fucking dare—”
He knocks my hands off. “I will not stand by and watch you fuck this up.”
“I don’t plan on fucking it up.”
“You’re not focused, Jericho.”
“I’m one-hundred percent focused, Zeke. You just stay the hell out of my way if the thought of punishing Isabelle Bishop makes you queasy. All you have to do is make sure to keep your hands to yourself.”
“Like you did with Kimberly?”
The door opens then, and we both turn to find our mother standing there looking more fierce than she’s looked in a long time. She’s downright furious. I recognize the blazing eyes. I see them every time I look at my reflection. At least in one of my eyes.
She takes in the scene, her mouth falling open, and I realize how close we are to coming to blows.
She enters and closes the door behind her.
“Why are you out of bed?” I ask, as Zeke and I put space between us.
“Have you two lost your minds?” she asks instead of answering my question.
Fuck.
I look down at the Persian rug covering a large section of the floor. Zeke always liked those. My office, which is across the foyer, has a slightly more modern design.
With a sigh I shift my gaze to my brother. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean any of that.”
“Me either,” he says, looking as sheepish as I feel.
He steps toward me, extending his hand. I shake it.
“We’re in this together. I am your ally. Don’t forget it,” he says.
“I won’t,” I tell him.
“Better,” my mother says.
“You need to get some rest,” Zeke tells her. “Your doctor said—”
“I know what she said, Ezekiel,” she says, then turns to me. “Tell me something, did I hear correctly?” She raises an eyebrow and doesn’t take her eyes off me. “The Bishop girl is here?”
Zeke snorts.
I clench my jaw. I don’t owe anyone an explanation. Not even my family. “She is.”
“Where is she?” my mother asks, eyes bright.
I grit my jaw and she knows exactly where.
Her face pales. “Jericho.”
I stand there and manage my breathing.
“You cannot leave her down there,” my mother starts, her tone already setting me off. She’s softened over the last few years. But this is not a time for softness. Her words blur into background noise for a minute until she makes a mistake. “Kimberly would not—”
“Enough!” I slam my hand on the edge of the desk and my mother jumps. I see her face and know I need to rein it in. The girl already has us at each other’s throats. It’s what Bishops do.
I look at my brother, then my mother and I hold her gaze as I speak. “You did not watch Kimberly die.” My voice is more controlled but I’m not calm. Nowhere close to it. “You did not hold her as her life drained from her body. As her eyes lost their light. I did. Neither of you. You do not get to say what happens to the Bishop girl.”
With that, I gather up the signed parchment and stalk past my mother leaving both her and Zeke in his study.
I walk toward the cellar. I brace myself when I reach the steel door. Force in a breath. Force memories back down. I remind myself why I’m here. Why I need to go down there. I need to be as cold and as unforgiving as this door. I unlock it and push it open. I banish all those thoughts as I descend the stairs to deal with Isabelle Bishop.
7
Isabelle
The door slams against the wall, startling me. I blink once, twice, my back sore and cold against the stone wall. My eyes land on the devil of a man looming in the hall. I instantly remember where I am. What brought me here.
Survival instinct has me jumping to my feet and shuffling to the opposite end of the tiny room. The carpet scratches my bare feet as I gather my senses to put space between us. I’m registering the pounding of my heart, the adrenaline rushing through my veins.
He looks furious. His jaw is clenched, the line of it somehow sharper for that tightness and barely hidden beneath the five-o’clock shadow. His eyes are on fire, one almost black with rage, the other a feral, animal silver. I drag my eyes from his and my gaze catches on his bare forearms, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. They’re corded with muscle, and hugging the skin tight are the coiling tails of serpents. His giant hands fists at his sides.