“I didn’t know you were home.”
“No, I guess you didn’t. I just got back.” He looks me over, eyes falling on the dust still clinging to the knees of my jeans. “What were you doing? And don’t tell me praying.”
“I had a fight with your brother. Well, not a fight… just, things are weird.” I take a deep breath. He’s not stupid. I’m not going to try to make up some story of why I’m here. What would be the point? “I wanted to know what Draca did to Nellie,” I say, gesturing to Draca’s grave.
“To ready yourself for what Jericho might do?”
I don’t answer.
“Hm.” His forehead is creased, eyes dark and intent. Just like how Jericho looks at me, as if he sees right through me. “And does knowing help you?”
I rub my arms at a sudden chill and look around. I shake my head.
“He was a piece of work, wasn’t he?” he asks, tracing the carved wood cover of the book.
“He hated Nellie even though she had nothing to do with what happened to Mary. It was her father who was guilty.”
“Sins of the father. You know how that goes.”
“Or the half-brother in my case.” I sit down on the pew again and he joins me.
“You’re not afraid to be in here alone in the middle of the night?”
I shrug a shoulder. “A little. But sometimes I’m more scared to be inside the house.”
The corner of his mouth curves upward and he exhales. “My brother can be an intimidating prick, but he won’t hurt you, Isabelle.”
I smile. “I agree whole-heartedly with that first part.”
He grins.
“But why do you think he won’t hurt me? Is it because of the baby?” I realize when I say it that I’m not sure if Ezekiel knows about the pregnancy. But given his expression, it’s not news.
“No, it has nothing to do with the baby. He just won’t.” He looks up at the altar. “He may have planned to, but he won’t. He can’t.”
“Can’t?”
He turns back to me and I see shadows under his eyes. A little bit of graying hair at his temple. “Come on, I’ll walk you back to the house,” he says, standing.
“What are you doing out here in the middle of the night, anyway? Just taking a walk in the woods?” I ask, standing.
“Visiting the dead,” he says. “Let’s go.” He closes his hand over my arm.
“Just a minute,” I say, remembering the candles I lit on the altar.
“Not sure you have a minute. My brother got home a little while ago.”
My heart drops to my stomach for the second time that night. “What?”
“He was on a call in his study. If you’re lucky, you can get upstairs before he realizes you’re gone.”
“I’m never lucky,” I say just as the chapel door opens as if to confirm the truth of my statement.
I gasp. A gust of wind blows out two of the candles and my husband stands on the threshold of the chapel. The little bit of light shining around him casts him in a shadow so dark, so menacing, I find myself shrinking from his gaze.
But it’s not me he’s glaring it.
It’s his brother.
I feel Ezekiel’s hand on me, wrapped around my arm. Then I remember what Jericho said about any man touching me.
“Brother,” Jericho says.
Jericho remains where he is, unblinking. His eyes move from Ezekiel’s hand on my arm, to me. He steps into the chapel letting the door slam shut behind him. I swear it rattles even the stone walls of this ancient building.
“Brother,” Ezekiel replies.
I swallow, my heart racing as Jericho eats up the space between them, moving as swift as a shadow. He grips Ezekiel’s wrist. I wonder if Ezekiel had forgotten he was holding me or if he keeps his hand on my arm to taunt his brother.
“We discussed this,” Jericho says, face inches from his brother. Two giants readying for battle. “You don’t touch what’s mine.”
I glance from Jericho’s hard face to Ezekiel’s and see one corner of his mouth curl upward. “See what I mean, Isabelle?” he asks. I assume he’s referring to the intimidating prick comment but for as casual as he sounds, he hasn’t shifted his eyes from his brother.
“He didn’t touch me,” I hurry to say.
Ezekiel releases me. Smiles. “I’m not afraid of my brother, sweetheart.”
“Sweetheart?” Jericho gets in Ezekiel’s face, his big body nudging me aside. “Maybe you should be,” Jericho tells him.
“Relax,” Ezekiel says, his expression and body language confirming he’s not afraid. But he is ready to do battle. I wonder if this is about Kimberly. If this is a years’ old battle that will happen whether it’s tonight or another night. Or if it’s truly about me. If he feels that possessive about me. But why would he? I’m a means to an end. It’s Kimberly he loved.
Kimberly he loved.
I feel my forehead crease as I look to the stone floor, my gaze landing on the carving of Draca’s name on his grave. To Mary’s. I think about how much he loved her. What he did to avenge her.
I shake my head at the direction my thoughts take. Jericho St. James does not love me. This isn’t even about love. Not for either of us. So why do I feel that tightening in my chest?
“It’s just an expression,” Ezekiel says, drawing my attention back to the moment. He removes Jericho’s hand from his wrist. “You and I need to talk.”
“Yeah. We do. But first I need to deal with my wife.”
I find myself taking a step away at his sideways glance.
Ezekiel glances at me too, but only briefly, then turns to his brother. “Don’t punish her. We weren’t here together. I surprised her.”
“Whether or not I punish my wife is not your concern.”
I put my hand against my stomach to stop the flutter of anticipation of what’s to come.
“Take it out on me. Not her,” Ezekiel says.
“Get out.”
Ezekiel opens his mouth, but I reach my hand to his arm to stop him. “Go. It’s okay,” I say.
A rattle like that of a snake warning of impending attack comes from Jericho’s chest. It takes all I have to steel myself. To stand up tall even if I still come to the middle of their chests.
“I’m not scared of him either,” I say to Ezekiel even though my eyes are locked with Jericho’s.
“That was a mistake,” Jericho says and takes my arm. “Get out, Zeke,” he hisses the words, never looking away from me.
Ezekiel doesn’t move and he doesn’t reply right away. But then he glances at Draca’s book on the altar and it’s as if he understands something because his posture changes. He shakes his head, grips Jericho by the collar and forces him off me. “Don’t be a fucking idiot,” he tells him.
“Get the fuck out,” Jericho tells him.
“If you’re planning to do what I think you’re planning to do then no. I won’t allow it.”
“You won’t allow it?”
“No. I won’t.”
“She’s not yours.”
“No, she’s not. But if you’re going to play that idiotic game our ancestor played—”