Devil's Redemption (Devil's Pawn Duet 2)

I look at her little thumb, see the smear of red. I wipe off her finger. Isabelle must have scratched me when she was struggling.

“It’s nothing. Just cut myself shaving.” I watch Angelique. “She isn’t your mommy. You know that right?”

Her eyes flit to Isabelle again and she nods. “Why don’t I have a mommy?”

Fuck.

She’s asked this before and it never ever gets any fucking easier.

Because Isabelle’s brother murdered her. That’s why.

“Your mommy died before you were born, sweetheart. I know she was sad not to be with you. She loved you very much. I can tell you that. She was so excited to meet you.”

“But she couldn’t.” She knows these answers. This conversation never changes.

I nod. My throat is closing up. It’s the look in her eyes. Her young mind unable to process. To understand something so unnatural. So wrong.

“Why did she die?”

“I don’t know,” I lie. “Let’s go fix your book, okay? I know Isabelle would want to do it but since she can’t, I’ll help you. If you’ll let me,” I add.

“Why were you fighting?” she asks, eyes so much like mine it’s as if they see right to my core. Does she see the monster there?

“How is she?” my mother asks from the door saving me from having to answer.

“She’ll be all right.”

My mother looks at me a bit longer but knows not to ask the question we all want confirmed. Is Isabelle pregnant?

I turn to Angelique again. “What do you say? Let’s go get your book and we’ll fix it. That way when Isabelle wakes up, we can show it to her.”

“Will you read me the story after?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. But leave the door open a crack in case Belle needs us,” Angelique says as I carry her out into the hallway, leaving the door open a crack just in case.

2

Isabelle

I wake slowly my vision fuzzy as I take in the light filtered by drawn curtains. On the nightstand is a book. I can’t read the title on the spine. It’s too creased. There’s a jacket hanging on the back of a chair. Beyond it is a door.

The door that connects my room to my husband’s.

It’s open. My towel lies on the floor. And I remember why, just as my gaze lands on the man sitting across the room in the large leather wingback chair.

Jericho St. James.

My husband.

My devil.

The liar.

I shift to sit up and he sets his reading material aside. I notice it’s my notebook.

“What are you doing with that?” I ask even though there are about a thousand more important questions that need answering.

He walks over to me. “You write your own music,” he says. It’s not a question. “Why aren’t you in school?”

“I’m slow, remember?”

“It’s good.” He shoves his hands into his pockets and I see the line of worry between his eyebrows. He looks different than he has before. Is it guilt I see in his features? In his stance?

No. A man like Jericho St. James wouldn’t feel guilt. It’s not in his DNA.

“My music is none of your business,” I tell him.

“I’d like to hear you play.”

The blanket falls away as I sit up. I notice I’m wearing Christian’s shirt.

Jericho moves to adjust the pillows behind my back and although I’d like to tell him to fuck off, I don’t. I need to conserve my strength. I’m going to need it if what I suspect is true.

“How do you feel?” he asks.

I look up at him. That usual cockiness isn’t there and he’s handsomer for it. His features somehow gentler.

No. I banish the thought. This man is not gentle. He is a devil. A liar. He is my enemy.

Julia knew all along. I’d told her it wasn’t true. I had my birth control pills, after all. He hadn’t taken those away. God. What a fool I am.

“I feel like shit. Like I’ve been lied to. Deceived in the worst possible way. Shall I go on?”

Someone knocks on the door and Jericho calls out for them to come in. It’s Leontine carrying a tray. When I smell the comforting scent of soup, my stomach growls. I am starving.

“Isabelle,” she says with a smile as Jericho takes the tray from her, setting it on the nightstand. “I’m glad to see you awake.”

“Did you know?” I ask her.

She’s silent and therein lies her answer.

“Did you know that he was swapping out my pills?” I say the words aloud, accusing them both. Hearing them makes the betrayal uglier. More monstrous. I glance at Jericho who doesn’t make a sound. Doesn’t deny it. Nothing. He just watches me.

She looks to her son. “Go,” he tells her without taking his eyes off me. “Make sure we’re not disturbed.”

She nods and without another look in my direction, leaves.

“You’ve got everyone under your thumb, don’t you?”

He sits on the edge of the bed, reaching to adjust the blankets.