Devil's Pawn (Devil's Pawn Duet 1)

“Just a bug. I’m sure it’ll be over in a day or two.” I look at the unmade bed just beyond her and want nothing more than to crawl back into it. I feel so tired and just wrung out.

“Come on,” she says and takes my arm. “Just eat some toast. You’ll feel better.”

I look at the toast and sit on the edge of the bed.

“I’m fine, really. I need to shower. I promised Angelique I’d help her fix her book and I overslept.” I’ve been sleeping longer than usual. It’s not like me.

“She’ll understand. Eat. I’ll call a doctor.”

“If I eat it, you’ll leave me alone?”

She sighs but nods.

“I’m fine. Really. It’s nothing.” I pick up the toast and bite into it, managing two bites. “See. Fine.” I take another bite. “Just please tell Angelique I’ll be there as soon as I can.” It takes all my strength to hurry across the room and go into my own bedroom through the adjoining door. I lean against the closed door once I’m alone, my hand on my stomach, waiting until the wave of nausea passes to move.

I walk across the room to the bathroom where once I’m inside, I lock the door. I switch on the shower and strip off Jericho’s shirt, inhaling the scent of him as I pull it over my head. Wondering what the fuck I’m thinking when I catch myself.

Last night was strange. All of it. From Angelique considering me her mom now that I’m married to her dad, to Jericho losing his shit when he overheard her saying it. To that pillory and to what happened there.

I really think his intention was to punish me for Angelique’s comment. As if I can control that. I understand his jealousy of my relationship with his daughter. She trusts me. And although she’s only known me for a little while, I’m here, a constant in her life. Her father is still unreliable. One swimming lesson isn’t going to change five years of history.

But when we got home. Wait. No. Not home. When we got back and I said I was hungry, he made me a sandwich. He wouldn’t let me do it myself. Okay, don’t go overboard. It was buttered bread. He probably just didn’t want me passing out in that pillory. That would ruin his fun.

My mind wanders to the night I had the nightmare. To how he held me. Anchored me to him. But I shake my head, shake off the memory.

The memory of what happened with the pillory sends heat coursing through me and this time when my stomach flips, it’s not nausea.

I smear toothpaste on my toothbrush and brush my teeth as I step into the shower.

What we did last night was different than I ever would have expected. The thought of how he took me and how I liked it, how much I liked it, I don’t know. I should be humiliated, right? He locked me in that pillory and then took me the way he did. How debasing is that?

I came hard, though.

Although I have no doubt he can make that an unpleasant experience, too.

But that’s the thing. This is where I’m stuck. It’s like the sandwich. Like him whipping his own thigh with the belt rather than hurting me. Like him getting me a glass of water and holding me after my nightmare.

He may want to be a devil to me but he’s struggling to keep up the façade. He takes care not to hurt me. More care than I’ve felt in the last three years living in the house where, according to at least half of my blood, I belong. Not Julia, not Carlton, no one since Christian died has made me feel like they would put my needs above theirs. And Jericho has.

And I remember what I said last night.

I remember the moment the words were out. I don’t think he heard me. Or maybe he thought, like I did myself, that it was just a mix up. Me losing control of my thoughts in the heat of the moment. Me panting for him to make me come like only he can make me come.

I don’t know. I don’t know what’s going on in this house or in my head.

I don’t know what I want.

Thirsty, I turn my face up to the flow of the shower and drink but it’s a mistake. The nausea that’s now becoming familiar overwhelms me and I quickly switch off the water and grab a towel, dropping to my knees and raising the toilet seat at once. I throw up the little bit of water I just drank along with the toast. From beneath the cabinet, I hear my phone buzz. I’d moved it there from behind the bed a few days ago. I heave once, twice, and although nothing comes, I feel sick.

The phone buzzes again, stops, starts again. It’s not like Julia to keep calling if I don’t pick up. I have been calling her back when I see I’ve missed a call. She knows he could be in here anytime and if he caught me with the phone, I’m sure he’d take it away. So, after the next round of dry-heaving, I crawl toward the cabinet, open it and rummage for the phone. I sit back against the tub. The phone starts up again and I swipe to answer.

“Hey,” I say to Julia. “I was sick, I’m sorry—”

“I’ve been calling for hours. Isabelle there’s a problem.” She sounds strange. Like she’s upset. Very upset.

“What is it? Is it Matty?”

Someone enters the bedroom and a moment later tries the door but it’s locked.