But then her face softens, her forehead furrows and she hugs me.
And it takes me out of the moment completely. Out of my head.
“You came back for me,” she says against my neck, fresh tears wet on my skin.
I don’t know what to do as I feel her body surrender against mine, molding to mine. She hugs me tighter, pulling herself closer, repeating those same words. My arms move of their own accord and wrap around her. Instinct? No. More than that.
Want.
Need.
I hold onto her and try to process what the hell is happening. What I believe. What is true versus what I want to be true.
“I didn’t take any. I never intended to. I should have flushed them down the toilet the night she gave them to me. I just forgot about them. So much has happened and I forgot.”
She draws back and looks at me with those big, sad blue eyes. Like broken glass.
Shards of sharp, cutting glass.
She feels me stiffen. I see it in her eyes. See it in the way her forehead furrows, the way she curls into herself.
“But that’s not why you came back, is it?” She hugs her arms around herself protectively.
“No.”
“What do you want then?” She shivers, looks for the sweater that has slid off her.
I stand up, push my hands into my hair.
“I didn’t take them,” she starts as if we’re still having that conversation. “I wasn’t ever going to. You have to believe me. I wouldn’t hurt our baby. I would never do that.”
It takes all I have to swallow the lump in my throat. To harden my heart. Because when I see the look in her eyes, it fucks with me. It makes me want to take her into my arms and hold her and believe her.
She’s a Bishop. Remember that.
“Stop talking and get up.”
“Please, Jericho, you have to believe me. Please.”
“I said stop talking and get up. I’ll fucking gag you if you don’t shut up.”
“Why are you being like this?”
“I won’t fall for your tears. Up. Last chance.”
She slides across the bed and gets up, pushing her arms into her sweater.
“Walk.”
She walks ahead of me all the way up to her bedroom where once she’s inside, she stops. I close the door behind us and watch her as she looks around. Takes in the state of things. She turns to me.
“Where are my things?”
“You won’t need them. But I thought this room would be more comfortable than the cellar, considering the child.”
The room is stripped bare. Only her bed remains. One pillow. No books. No clothes apart from essentials. Her violin. That is the one thing I will allow for her comfort.
She tests the door between our rooms. It’s locked. She’s no longer welcome in my bed.
On the desk is her violin case. She opens it, exhales in relief. She touches it, then turns to me and I see the tiniest spark of hope in her eyes.
“Did you order this?” she asks, gesturing around the room.
I nod.
“And this too?” she asks about the violin.
“Yes.”
She walks toward me. I stand still as stone unsure what she’s going to do. When she reaches up to touch my cheek, we both flinch at the spark of electricity.
“Then there’s hope,” she says and I’m more confused than I’ve ever been in my life.
She stands on tip toe and touches her lips to mine. I don’t respond. I don’t kiss her back. But I also don’t push her away. I guess that encourages her because she kisses me again. Longer this time, holding my face with both hands.
I take her lower lip between my teeth, snaking my hand up her back and into her hair to hold her still as I bite down, drawing a cry from her. I taste the copper of blood.
She tries to draw back but I keep her close and look down at her. “You want to be fucked? Is that what this is about?”
Her mouth opens but before she can speak, I close mine over it, walking her to the bed. I spin her and hold her back to my chest as I slide one hand down to undo the button and zipper of her jeans. Bending her over the foot of the bed, I push her jeans and panties down.
“Jericho—”
“Stay.” I place my knee on her lower back to pin her and undo my belt, my slacks.
She turns her head to watch and doesn’t fight me. I grip her ass and lift her hips a little, splaying her open to see her. All of her.
I’m not gentle when I take her. Take what’s mine.
Isabelle gasps, fists the blanket, her body stiffening.
“You want to be fucked?” I repeat, thrusting into her. “You think you can turn my head? I’m not so simple as that but I will oblige you only to take what I want from you.”
I nudge her knees apart and fuck her hard, forcing the breath from her with each thrust, laying myself over her as sweat collects along my forehead.
She tries to turn her head, but I grip a handful of hair to stop her. I don’t want her eyes on me. I won’t be able to do this if I see her eyes.
“Not like this,” she says. “Please.”
I bite the curve of her neck bring my cheek to hers as I near my finish. She’s meeting my thrusts, arms curled back so she can hold onto me.
“Please, Jericho. Kiss me. Please kiss me.”
“Fuck.” I tilt her head back, kissing the corner of her mouth. When I loosen my grip on her hair, she turns to kiss me like she wants and that takes me over the edge. That is the thing that has me moaning as I release, giving her all my weight. I spend my seed before we slide to our knees on the floor, me crowding her back, panting. Her turning herself so she’s curled into me.
“I love you,” she whispers into my chest, my neck. Her hands on my face. “Do you know that I love you? Devil or not, St. James or not, baby or not, I love you.”
I look down at her earnest face, her huge eyes, small hands holding onto me as if afraid to lose me.
“And I’d never hurt our baby. How can I hurt a piece of you?”
She smiles a small, sad smile. I try to process her words, a part of me wanting to see the lies. The liar. But I don’t. I see Isabelle. I see the Isabelle my own heart has been growing more and more tender for. And I want to believe her like I’ve never wanted to believe anything before.
“You know that though,” she says. “I know you do. You won’t lock me up in here. You won’t.”
I close my eyes. Force her face from my mind. Remember the pills. Remember my rage. But it’s getting harder and harder. I pull free of her and get to my feet, zipping my slacks, leaving her on the floor with her jeans tangled around her ankles.
“Jericho?”
Shit. I need to think. I take a step to the door. Stop. Turn back to her.
“Was it the same one?” I ask, not sure why I care.
“Same one?” She’s confused.
“The nightmare. Downstairs. Was it Gibson?”
She blinks, her expression changing, worry etching a fine line in the space between her eyebrows. She pulls her knees up, wraps her arms around them and shakes her head, shifting her gaze down.
“What was it then?”
It takes her a minute before she answers, and I can see whatever it was terrified her.
“Tell me,” I push.
She looks back up at me. “The grave. The place next to Nellie’s. It was dug up. It was ready for me.”