“They don’t go where they’re not supposed to. Angelique knows the rules.”
“Send a man with them anyway. Just to be on the safe side.”
She hesitates, then nods. “Yes, sir.”
I nod and walk out of the kitchen, the exchange feeling awkward. I’ve known Catherine since I was a kid but now, so much has changed. I’ve been gone so long, and it all feels different. Like it’s not my house. Like they’re not my staff.
But I remind myself why I’m here and why things are the way they are. When I get to the front door and see Dex standing beside the Lamborghini, I focus on what I must do today. Because there was something in the look Carlton gave my brother yesterday. It’s no coincidence that Santiago De La Rosa exchanged a similar look with him during the same topic of discussion. And I mean to understand what it’s about.
32
Isabelle
I’m not surprised when I wake up sore all over the following morning. I am careful not to roll onto my back, afraid it will be tender but when I sit up, I wince, tender in other, more intimate places.
Jericho is gone. His pillow is cold. And on the nightstand is a note, brief and to the point telling me he hopes I’m feeling better, that we’ll discuss the dream later and not to shower so as not to get the tattoo wet just yet.
I roll my eyes. I won’t be discussing that nightmare with him. I won’t discuss Christian with him. Or that night. Ever.
But then I remember how he held me. How gentle he was when I scratched bloody lines down his chest. Then again, maybe he deserved that considering what he’s done to my skin.
I get up and walk into the bathroom to look at the mark. Turning my back to the mirror, I crane my neck to see the reflection and gasp. The colorful tattoo spans the length of my spine. It’s narrow and more slender than the one on his back. Somehow more feminine. And although I can’t study the details just yet, it is beautiful. I can see that much. It’s still covered in plastic, so I leave it alone, wrapping a towel around myself and walk back into the bedroom to go to my own room. I use the adjoining door since I’m only wearing this towel. I don’t need Angelique to catch me taking my walk of shame.
But my gaze finds the once-white sheets and blanket covering the bed. I gasp. It’s stained with my blood, not to mention the other things. At the sight I feel sticky between my legs and hurry to take the bedding off the bed. Just as I’m rolling it into a ball a knock comes on the door before it opens. The housekeeper I’d met the other morning smiles after her surprise at finding me here.
“Good morning, Miss,” she says and shifts her gaze to what I’m doing.
“Good morning, Catherine, right?” I say, leaving the sheets and trying to stand there like I haven’t just been caught in the act of trying to hide my shame of last night.
“That’s right. And you don’t need to worry about that. I’ll take care of the washing. You just leave your things to me, too, all right?”
I hadn’t even thought of laundry. The day-to-day tasks of living. “Um, okay. Thanks. Is… Jericho home?”
“No, miss. He left a few hours ago.”
“Okay. Thanks. And please call me Isabelle.”
She smiles sweetly. “All right, Isabelle.”
“I’m going to go get dressed,” I say awkwardly and quickly head to my own room, feeling my face burn at the thought of what she’ll find when she unrolls those sheets.
Back in my room I wash myself carefully without getting the tattoo wet. Then dress in a pair of shorts and a loose-fitting top that will hide the tattoo but not irritate it. As I come out of the bathroom, I hear the buzzing of my phone. I hurry to where I have it hidden beneath my pillow. It’s silenced but the buzzing is enough to alert me and when I see who it is, I answer quickly.
“Hello? Julia?”
“Sleeping beauty. I’ve been calling you for hours.”
I check the time. It’s almost noon. I never sleep in but last night took its toll on me in so many ways.
“It was a long night,” I say, sitting on the edge of the bed.
“I bet.”
“Not like that. I mean the whole thing.” The marriage, the marking. Jericho almost killing Carlton.
“Carlton told me he came to congratulate you, but your husband wouldn’t let him near you.”
“It wasn’t about me. He just gets very protective when it comes to his daughter,” I find myself saying. Am I defending Jericho St. James?