It’s his turn to flinch. Good.
He nods. Stands.
“We won’t tell Angelique until you’re farther along just in case.”
“There’s no we. There’s you and there’s me.”
He ignores that. “I don’t want to get her hopes up.”
“Well, that’s probably the one thing you and I agree on.”
“Good. You’ll sleep in my bed going forward. And your priority will be your health. The health of my child.”
“Not pleasing you? That’s not my priority any longer?” I ask, my tone mocking.
“Isabelle—”
“It’s why you did it.” I don’t know why this knowledge hurts. It’s not really breaking news. And on some level, I had to know. It’s not as though he has any affection for me. The horned devil who saved me from those men in that chapel has proven himself to be more villain than hero. Many times over. I doubt he ever wanted to be the hero, though. That night for one moment I’d thought it. My knight in shining armor. A stranger come to sweep me off my feet and carry me away.
Away where? I ask myself now. Away to what? The last three years have been a sort of hell. Losing my parents was bad. But losing Christian? And the way I lost him? That broke me. The three years I’ve been living in the Bishop house with a man who is blood, my half-brother, I’ve only ever felt alone and cold. Even with Julia. Only with Matty was there some affection. Some physical contact. And human beings need that. We need touch. We need gentleness. Need to feel wanted. Loved.
I shake my head. Jesus. I’m pathetic.
He takes a deep breath in and waits, looking down from his great height. I wonder how I look to him.
“Julia was right.” He knows about the phone. No sense in trying to hide how I know from him. “She told me how the Bishop inheritance works. That Carlton needs to produce an heir to keep control of the family fortune.”
“Your brother is unable to produce any heirs.”
“He has a year. I’m sure—”
“His wives have miscarried every single time.”
I know that.
“I’m not worried about Carlton Bishop magically producing an heir in the eleventh hour. You, being blood, are next in line to inherit. Once the child is born, your place is sealed. And so is his.”
“And as Head of Household, so is yours. You’ll take control of the inheritance.”
“Correct. Upon the child’s birth, I will take control. It should coincide nicely with Carlton’s fiftieth.”
“You’re a terrible human being, do you know that?”
His eyes narrow and there’s a menacing tilt to his head. “You don’t know the things he’s done.”
“You mean the things you accuse him of. They’re only things you would do, Jericho St. James.” I push the blanket off feeling stronger and get to my feet. I step closer, getting to within an inch of him. “Things only a monster like you is capable of.”
A darkness descends over his features, a grin making something wicked out of his mouth. He walks me backward until I hit the wall. “Shall I tell you more, Isabelle?”
“I wouldn’t believe a word you say so save your breath.”
“Shall I tell you exactly how he decided your destiny before you even became aware of his existence?”
His words confuse me but before I can answer, he takes my arms, slips them behind my back and grips both wrists with one hand.
“No. I’ll spare you that. I’ll tell you something else instead.” His eyes flicker to my mouth, lower to the exposed part of my chest. “You are my wife. You carry my child. You belong to me, Isabelle St. James.”
Isabelle York. Isabelle Bishop. Isabelle St. James. I’ve come a long way in three years.
I open my mouth to protest, to curse him to hell because he won’t hurt me. Not now. Not while I’m carrying his child. But before I can, I hear the unbuckling of his belt, the sound of his zipper. I swallow, glancing down then back up at him.
The wicked set of his mouth is different now. Dirty. His gaze darkly erotic.
“And what’s more, wife, you want to belong to me,” he says, releasing my wrists and gripping my hips to lift me off the ground. I have no choice but to wrap my legs around his middle as he balances me between himself and the wall. I feel his fingers at the crotch of my panties, pushing them aside. And as much as I hate it, I’m aroused.
“I don’t,” I tell him even as I feel him at my entrance, even as my body prepares to welcome him. “I don’t.” My arms are around his shoulders, hands gripping handfuls of hair and tugging. Hurting.
“You’re a liar too, wife,” he says as he thrusts inside me.
I grunt, taking the full length of him, my passage too tight, the intrusion too fast.