“What’s he going to do with me then?” I ask, my voice harder. “What does he think he needs to do with me to keep her safe?”
“We’ve all sacrificed. Keep that in mind. And you will be looked after. Kept safe.”
“Safe from who? Because from where I’m standing, the one person I need to be kept safe from is your son.”
“That’s not—”
“Tell me what he’s planning, Leontine.” There’s no softness to muster up.
“He’ll explain it to you tomorrow.” She bends to pick up her son’s suit jacket and folds it over her arm, putting her hand on the doorknob.
I rush to her, grab her other arm.
“No. Tell me now.” She looks down at where I’m holding her, and I follow her gaze. See how hard my grip is. I let her go. “Please.”
“Tomorrow you’ll marry my son.”
“What?” I take a step back, feeling like the wind has been knocked out of me.
“He’ll be gentler than most,” she says, one hand moving to the back of her neck. “Trust me, Isabelle, it’s better than the alternative.” She opens the door.
“Alternative? What alternative? That you let me go? That he lets me go?” My voice sounds hectic, panicked. Desperate.
She stops, turns back to me and I can’t read her eyes. They’re burning, like his burn, but there is a gentleness there. I’m just not sure it’s meant for me.
“Go where?” she asks. “Where would you go? Do you have any idea the things your brother has done? What he has planned for you? Did your cousin tell you any of that when she met you in the chapel?”
I’m taken aback. “How did you know about that?”
“You’re never truly alone at the compound. Keep that in mind.” She steps back into the room and closes the door. “You’ll marry my son tomorrow. Then you’ll be safe, and he’ll do what he needs to do. That’s all.”
“That’s all? That’s my life!”
“Your life was forfeit before my son entered it. Your brother saw to that.”
“What does that mean?”
“What was Carlton Bishop doing the night you met my son? Wasn’t he parading you around under the noses of eligible Sovereign Sons in that ridiculous dress? Do you know how old some are? Do you know the one he’d chosen for you? Maybe you’ll recognize the name. Joseph Manson.”
“Joseph Manson?” the horrible man Carlton had me dance with at the masquerade ball? Surely not. He was old enough to be my grandfather. But then I remember the way he looked at me, how his hands roamed a little too low on my back. How his rancid breath brushed my neck as he held me closer than necessary. I shudder at the visceral memory and wish I could shower again.
“You know the name,” she says. “Three wives came before you. Ask your cousin about that next time you talk to her.” She opens the door, steps out then turns back to look at me. “You’ll have my son’s protection. Remember that. And you need it, Isabelle Bishop. More than you know.”
23
Jericho
I spend that night locked in my study as my brother’s words repeat in my head. As her face floats into memory. As the photograph of the crime scene I can’t stop looking at stares back at me.
She’s no match for me. Zeke’s right. She’s not meant for our world. But she’s in it. He means to strike up a bargain with Joseph Manson? How old is that fuck? Sixty? More? She’s fucking nineteen years old.
There’s the vision of her face again. Her face when she came. How her eyes closed. How she tilted her head back baring her throat to me. How the vulnerable flesh of her neck tasted.
No match.
How my name sounded on the breath of her whisper as she came on my fingers.
My dick is hard. Fuck. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. How many women have I fucked over my lifetime? Countless. How many times have I given any of them, apart from Kimberly, a second thought? How many do I remember the name of? The face? The way they sounded when they called out my name?