He sits on the edge of the bed, reaching to adjust the blankets.
“Don’t touch me!”
He stops, not commenting, but doesn’t touch me.
I draw my feet up, see the fuzzy pink socks with their white polka dots. Did he dress me? I was naked when they knocked me out. I’d just come out of the shower.
It doesn’t matter, though.
“You need to eat, Isabelle. I’m going to feed you.”
“I can feed myself.”
“You’re weak.”
“I’ll manage.”
“Do I need to tie you to the bed to do it?”
“You’d do that, wouldn’t you? Is there anything you won’t do? Any line you won’t cross? Or is human decency beyond your comprehension? Not really your concern?”
“Do I need to bind you?” he asks again.
“No,” I tell him because truth is, I am weak. In so many ways.
He picks up the bowl. I see a clear broth with small dumplings inside it.
“It’s homemade and vegetarian,” he says. “Catherine made it for you.”
“I’ll just throw it up.”
“We’ll go slow. The doctor gave you some vitamins. The B vitamins especially should help with the nausea. He left other medication if you can’t keep food down.”
I glance at the nightstand, seeing two containers. I’m flooded with emotion suddenly. I press the heels of my hands into my eye sockets. They come away wet.
“Is it confirmed then? I’m pregnant?” My voice sounds strange. Thick and full of emotion I’m trying too hard to suppress.
He nods. “We’ll go to the doctor’s office in a few days and find out more then.”
“I’m nineteen years old.” Tears fill my eyes and a lump makes my throat close. “This isn’t what I wanted.” What I expected. Hoped for.
Jericho puts the bowl aside and takes hold of my arms. His jaw is tense and his grip isn’t hard, but it is solid. “I’m going to take care of you, Isabelle. I promise.”
I want to shove him away, but it feels good having him hold me. He’s like an anchor. Someone stronger than me I can lean on. It feels good because I haven’t had someone hold me in so, so long. Not like this. Not like they might care.
But then I remember he doesn’t care. Not about me. He cares about his baby. He’s a monster. A beast. So I shrug out of his grasp.
“You swapped out the pills. Julia found them. The real ones.”
He’s silent.
“If she hadn’t would you have lied? Told me it must be an accident?”
“I haven’t lied to you once, Isabelle.”
“No, you’ve done far worse.”
He picks up the soup and readies a spoonful of broth. “Open.”
I look at it, hungry. I open and he’s careful as he brings the hot liquid to my mouth. It’s bland but hot and good. Simple. How I like soup.
I’m pregnant.
I take another spoonful of broth, taste the salt of a tear that slides to my lip.
I am pregnant with Jericho St. James’s baby.
He wipes my chin then feeds me another bite, this one with a dumpling. They’re good too, doughy, and salty. I eat in silence. He’s patient, not rushing me.
When the bowl is empty, he sets it down and picks up the plate of thick-sliced buttered white bread. “Salt?” he asks, picking up the shaker.
He remembers from the other night.
I nod, watching him as I eat the bread he feeds me. I think about how much I am under this man’s control. How he is the dictator of my life. I am in his house. In his bed. His hand is the one that feeds me. Literally. His mark is etched into my skin. He can lock me in that cellar if he wants. Keep me there until the baby is born and take the child from me. He can leave me there to die. Bury my body alongside Nellie Bishop’s and no one would know. And if they did, no one would help me. Angelique may remember me but I’m sure he could spin a story to distract her until she forgets about me, too. Would anyone even care? Julia? Carlton? Matty maybe.
“I need to know one thing,” he finally says as he sets the empty plate aside. I swallow the last mouthful.
“I’m all ears,” I say in a mock upbeat fashion. Inside something is twisting me up and tears just keep flowing.
He looks squarely at me, eyes searching mine. “Are you going to try to harm my baby?”
I flinch. And it takes me a full minute to dissect his words.
Am I going to try to harm his baby?
Harm a baby.
His baby.
“Will you chain me to your bed if I say yes?”
He nods as if it’s a no-brainer. An obvious answer. A normal one.
“Do you know how fucked up you are?”
“Believe me, I know exactly what I am.”
His comment takes me by surprise.
“Answer me, Isabelle,” he says.
I feel stronger. It’s the soup and bread and probably the vitamins.
“I’m not like you, Jericho St. James. I’m not someone who can harm another human being.”
It’s his turn to flinch. Good.
He nods. Stands.
“We won’t tell Angelique until you’re farther along just in case.”
“There’s no we. There’s you and there’s me.”
He ignores that. “I don’t want to get her hopes up.”
“Well, that’s probably the one thing you and I agree on.”
“Good. You’ll sleep in my bed going forward. And your priority will be your health. The health of my child.”
“Not pleasing you? That’s not my priority any longer?” I ask, my tone mocking.
“Isabelle—”
“It’s why you did it.” I don’t know why this knowledge hurts. It’s not really breaking news. And on some level, I had to know. It’s not as though he has any affection for me. The horned devil who saved me from those men in that chapel has proven himself to be more villain than hero. Many times over. I doubt he ever wanted to be the hero, though. That night for one moment I’d thought it. My knight in shining armor. A stranger come to sweep me off my feet and carry me away.
Away where? I ask myself now. Away to what? The last three years have been a sort of hell. Losing my parents was bad. But losing Christian? And the way I lost him? That broke me. The three years I’ve been living in the Bishop house with a man who is blood, my half-brother, I’ve only ever felt alone and cold. Even with Julia. Only with Matty was there some affection. Some physical contact. And human beings need that. We need touch. We need gentleness. Need to feel wanted. Loved.
I shake my head. Jesus. I’m pathetic.
He takes a deep breath in and waits, looking down from his great height. I wonder how I look to him.
“Julia was right.” He knows about the phone. No sense in trying to hide how I know from him. “She told me how the Bishop inheritance works. That Carlton needs to produce an heir to keep control of the family fortune.”
“Your brother is unable to produce any heirs.”
“He has a year. I’m sure—”
“His wives have miscarried every single time.”
I know that.
“I’m not worried about Carlton Bishop magically producing an heir in the eleventh hour. You, being blood, are next in line to inherit. Once the child is born, your place is sealed. And so is his.”