“You forced me to be your wife, remember?”
I tighten my grip when she tries to pull free. “You are my wife. You are carrying my child but pregnant or not, I don’t share.”
“Not true when it came to Kimberly,” she snaps, and she knows she’s wrong to say it the moment the words are out of her mouth. I see it on her face. “Shit. Sorry. I didn’t mean that.”
I blink, draw in a tight breath. Truth is I haven’t thought of Kimberly in days. Not like I used to anyway.
“I’m sorry,” she says again, thinking it’s her comment that upset me.
“It’s fine. You’re right.” I walk her backward, trapping her between the wall and myself. I let my gaze roam her face. She’s not wearing a stitch of makeup and she’s so beautiful. More now that she’s pregnant even with the shadows under her eyes after our long night. “You’re mine. You know that don’t you?”
She blinks, eyebrows coming together like she’s confused. Something tender passes through her eyes but it’s gone in the next instant, replaced by a hardness. “I’m yours because you want something.”
“You’re mine because I want you.”
“And you’re used to taking anything you want. Getting anything you want, aren’t you?”
I slide my hands down her arms to her wrists and drag them over her head, pinning them to the wall. Her eyes darken as she licks her lips, her body preparing itself as if in anticipation.
“I am,” I say darkly. “And pregnant or not, Bishop or not, vengeance or not, you’re what I want. Remember what I told you. Any man touches you, I will cut off their hands. That includes my brother. That includes Paul Hayes. Any. Man.”
Her throat works to swallow and the pulse at her neck throbs.
“You’re mine. Say it.”
Her mouth opens, closes.
“Say it, Isabelle.”
“I’m yours.”
“Only mine.”
“Only yours.”
I kiss her hard, releasing one of her wrists to cup the back of her head and pull her to me. The fingers of my other hand intertwine with the fingers of hers. And I realize how much what I said is true. She’s mine. Pregnant or not. Bishop or not. Vengeance or not.
Isabelle is mine.
Only mine.
She will only ever be mine.
12
Isabelle
I’m flushed when I walk into the lesson. I apologize to Paul again for Jericho but am distracted throughout the two hour lesson. I’m embarrassed by how Jericho behaved toward Paul but that’s not what has me distracted. It’s our conversation. What he said. What I said.
He wants me.
Pregnant or not. Bishop or not. Vengeance or not. I’m his.
When the lesson is over, and everyone gets ready to leave, I half expect Jericho to be standing in the hallway waiting for me his ear to the door. I’m not sure if I’m not a little disappointed when he’s not.
Everyone leaves but Paul hangs back.
“I know I still owe you for a few lessons, but I should be able to send you a check in a week or so. I have a job now, but things have been…weird.”
“You don’t owe me. We’re caught up.”
“No, I think I’m three lessons behind. I know I am. I keep track. And I want to pay for those I missed too. I know you have other students who want my spot—”
“I’m not kicking you out, Isabelle. Besides, you letting us use your house is great. Saves on renting a room at the college.”
“No. I’ll pay you. As soon as I can.”
“No worries.”
“You’re sweet. Hey, I’m sorry again about what happened.”
“It’s fine. My weight loss is no secret.” He looks over my shoulder and steps closer. “It’s just this whole marriage thing all came about out of nowhere. And he seems pretty possessive of you. You’re okay?”
“Yeah. I’m fine.”
“You’re sure?”
“M-hm.”
He studies me as if trying to gauge if I’m lying. I’m not. Not really.
“Okay,” he finally says. “As long as you’re fine. I was just surprised when Megs told me you were married. I mean, I didn’t even know you were dating anyone.”
“It was…sudden.”
He nods, studies me. “I’ll send you tickets to the show. We’re still on, right? You’ll be there?”
“Show?”
“You forgot?”
I think, then shake my head. “Shit. No, I didn’t forget. Time has just been going so fast.” Paul is playing in a quartet at a small theater. It’s one of his first public appearances.
“Good. One ticket or two?”
“Um…” I know he has to buy the tickets and I don’t want him to waste his money in case I can’t get there. “I can buy the tickets.”
“No, you’re my guest. I’ll just send two. So your husband doesn’t get testy.” He winks like he did earlier.
I giggle more out of nervousness than anything else and glance behind me.
He opens the door, and we look out at the rain. He turns back to me and pulls me to him for a hug. I hug him back. I’ve never thought of Paul as anything other than my teacher. I’m not attracted to him. Never have been. And the feeling is mutual. I think.
“I’ll see you next week,” I say, drawing back when the hug lasts longer than normal. Has he always held me like this? Or is it Jericho who has me paranoid?
“See you then.”
I close the door when he’s gone and turn back to the foyer. It’s quiet, the rooms on the first floor, dark. I still expect Jericho to creep out of some corner and surprise me, but he doesn’t. So, I head to the library. I’ll clean up before I go to bed. But I jump the instant I walk inside, because speak of the devil and there he is.
My husband.
He’s sitting on the big leather chair where Paul was sitting and the other, smaller chairs are still set in a circle around it. He’s got my violin in his hands.
“You scared me,” I finally say, hoping I sound somewhat normal. “Why are you sitting here in the dark?” He’s got his jacket off, the sleeves of his button-down rolled up to his forearms, the top two buttons undone.
“It’s not dark. It’s how you left it. Ambiance, I guess?”
“What?” the room is dimly lit by three soft lights. We’d turned off the brighter ones. “It’s better for the mood when we’re playing.”
“Paul like it better that way?”
“You’re being a child,” I say and pick up a tray.
“Sit.”
I look at him. “I’m going to clean up then go to bed.”
“Sit, Isabelle.”
I put the tray down and sit across from him, feeling the submissiveness of my position in the lower, smaller chair, him in the dominant position in the large leather chair. It didn’t feel like this earlier when Paul had been sitting there.
He holds the violin out to me. “Play.”
“I can’t just play on demand.” I start to get up. “I need to clean. I’m tired after last night’s adventures.” It’s a low blow. I know it. He was upset last night, not just drunk but hurting. I don’t apologize though, and I avert my gaze as I pick up the tray again.