“It wasn’t your place. That letter wasn’t for you.”
I bite my lip. “I didn’t know what I’d find and you’re right that it wasn’t for me, but it was for Jericho.” I am surprised to hear myself say it. Hear myself defending my husband.
He presses his lips together in a thin line. “I was protecting my brother.”
I nod, walk back into the room. “I know. I’m sorry for what happened to her.” I feel my eyes fill with tears.
“Thank you. But that’s not why I’m here.”
“Why are you here?”
“Jericho’s in bad shape Isabelle. Really bad.”
I feel my forehead wrinkle but before I can ask anything he continues.
“I found him at the cemetery last night. Heard what I thought was an animal out there, but it was my brother beating his fist to a pulp against the stone of the mausoleum.”
“Shit. He went out there after reading it?”
Ezekiel nods. “He feels guilty.”
“I’m so sorry,” I say, wondering if I should have just left it in its hiding place.
“He’s downstairs now. Locked up in his study. Probably drinking another bottle of whiskey. Will you go to him?”
“Me?”
“I’ve tried. Leontine tried. I think you may be the only one who can reach him.”
“Me?” I ask again, surprised.
“You. Leontine took Angelique out. Dex is with them. I don’t want her coming home and seeing her father this way.”
“Okay,” I say, nodding. “Just let me get dressed.”
“There’s no time.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a key. He holds it up to me. “Key to his office,” he says, and I see the bruise on his jaw. I wonder if that was Jericho.
“Okay.”
Ezekiel opens the door and I take the key as I pass him. Before I’ve even reached the bottom stair, I hear music coming from the study. He has the volume way up. I recognize the piece. Mozart’s requiem.
Catherine is standing nearby looking worried. She meets my gaze and I try to give her a reassuring look then walk to the door. I don’t bother to knock, just slip the key into the lock, and push the door open. The music is so loud in here I can’t hear myself think. The curtains are drawn, the only light is the one I’d left on last night. There, sitting in my vacated seat is my husband. My husband looking like a broken man. A near empty bottle of whiskey on the table beside him. He’s learning forward, elbows on knees, hands clasped between them, head hanging, hair messy. His clothes are dirty. His shoes off. And the smell of whiskey and pain permeates the room.
I don’t think he hears me enter because he doesn’t look up. I quietly lock the door behind me and look at him again. At my husband sitting in this dark room smelling of alcohol and regret. Looking beaten. Hopeless. Not the devil I know.
He lifts his head. When his gaze meets mine my heart twists at the sight of him. My eyes mist and last night is somehow forgotten. Forgiven.
I go to him, and he sits back against the couch. I see his face more clearly as I approach, see the blood on it, the dirt. The scruff of five-o’clock shadow. His shirt was once white, but it’s ruined. Ripped in places. Smeared with mud and blood. For a moment I wonder whose but then I see his hands. The right one is worse than the left. It’s swollen, bloody, possibly a finger or two broken.
I drop to my knees between his legs and touch his hands, hear his hiss of pain. They weren’t this bad last night. This isn’t from what he did to Danny Gibson. No. It’s from what he did to himself after he found that letter in my pocket. I look in his eyes and touch his face, the cut at his forehead. He looks hopelessly at me. He’s far away. Too far. I need to bring him back.
“What did you do to yourself?” I ask him.
He doesn’t speak but he brushes the knuckles of his better hand across my cheek. Reaching beyond me, he takes hold of the neck of the whiskey bottle.
“No,” I say, closing my hand around the bottle.
He blinks, eyes focusing on me. He tries again.
“No, Jericho. It’s enough.”
I don’t know what to expect but I’m glad when he doesn’t fight me. I set it back on the table and stand. I know one way to draw Jericho St. James out.
I reach underneath my sweater and slip off my panties. He watches as I straddle him, not bothering to undress completely.
“You stupid man,” I tell him as I undo his belt and pants, sliding my hand inside his briefs to grip his still soft cock. “Are you trying to kill yourself?” I ask, kissing his mouth. He doesn’t kiss me back at first. He’s unresponsive. But I move my hand over the length of him. As he hardens in my grip, his pupils begin to focus on mine and he closes one hand around the back of my head.
I raise myself up and adjust my position to mount him, taking him inside me, kissing him as I do. Our eyes are open, mouths touching, tongues wet. He’s hard inside me as I ride him slow and deep.
He moans. “Isabelle.”
“Shh.” I kiss him again as I grip the hem of my sweater. I pull it off, then rip his shirt open, the fabric tearing easily so we’re skin to skin. I need to get closer. As close as we can be.
He reaches around me, holding onto me with one arm as he grabs the whiskey with the other and brings it to his mouth.
“No,” I tell him. This time he resists but I shake my head. He allows me to take it from him. I let the bottle drop to the carpet. “I need you, Jericho,” I tell him, moving my hips and squeezing my muscles in that way I know he likes. I can feel him grow harder inside me as his hands come to my hips. “I need you here with me, do you understand?”
He doesn’t speak but begins to move me, grinding me against him.
“Our baby needs you. Your daughter needs you. Do you hear me?”
“It’s all so much worse than I ever imagined,” he says more to himself than me. “All fucking gone to hell.” His grip hardens around my hips.
“Stay here with me,” I say, cupping his face and making him look at me. “Be here with me now. I need you. Do you hear me? I need you, Jericho.”
He looks at me, eyes tired and full of so much pain.
“Please,” I say.
“I am like him. Zoë knew too. I idolized that man.”
“No. You’re not like him. I know.”
“I’m a devil. You said it yourself.”
“You could have hurt me. Really hurt me. So many times. But you didn’t. Not once.”
He shakes his head. “Isabelle—”
“And you’re my devil. I need my devil now, do you understand?”
“I knew you wouldn’t want a pregnancy. I changed your pills out. It’s worse than lying. You know that. I know that.”
“Shut up.”
“And eventually, I’ll hurt you. Don’t you see?”
“Shut up. Just shut up. Shut up and make me come. I need you to make me come.”
He swallows hard, eyes darkening. He grips my hips and pulls me down hard, grinding against himself. Then he lifts me and places me on the couch, spreading my legs and kneeling on the floor between them. He pulls me to the edge of the seat and buries his face. All I can do is grip a handful of hair and bite down on the back of my hand to keep from crying out. The scruff on his jaw is rough against my thighs, his mouth soft as he dips his tongue inside me before closing his mouth over my clit.