Devil's Pawn by Natasha Knight

Author:Natasha Knight [Knight, Natasha]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Natasha Knight Publishing

22

Isabelle

For better or worse. Until death do us part.

The strange words circle my brain.

Jericho drapes his jacket over my shoulders and hurries me out of the chapel, out of the compound. No one sees me, at least not the state of my dress, although I catch a glimpse of Julia before we’re out of the courtyard. Before he puts me into the car that’s idling along the curb, Dex in the driver’s seat. He doesn’t look at me as we drive back to his house. His face is stone. That folder on his lap.

In the rush of it all and maybe in his distracted state, my clutch doesn’t catch his eye. I half expect him to search me, but he doesn’t. He sits silent instead. I find myself hugging his jacket closer, trying not to look at him. Is he thinking about what just happened? It’s cool in the car, the air-conditioning on high. At least I tell myself it’s the air-conditioning that’s got me shivering.

When we get into the house, I can hear people talking, their voices lowered. It’s his brother and mother. They’re standing by the unlit fireplace in the living room. Jericho stops when he sees them, so I stop too. And they quiet, their eyes on us.

“Go to your room,” he says and walks away, leaving me standing in the foyer and disappearing down another corridor. They both watch as he disappears before turning their gazes on me.

I look down at myself, see the darker spot on the dress and hug the jacket closed. I hope they don’t see it and hurry up the stairs to my own room.

Once I’m inside I lean my back against the door wishing I could lock it. Although I don’t know if I want to lock it to keep him out any more, so I tell myself that even if I could, my devil has another way in. The one that leads to his room. What had he said? It’s for when he requires access to me? I can’t remember the exact words, but I can’t shake that feeling of being a possession. Being his.

I shudder, the jacket too big on my shoulders. I smell him on it. Smell him on me. And I shrug out of it, let it fall to the floor. I don’t look at the spot on my dress where my own arousal, my own pleasure, broadcasts my shame.

I came.

I let him make me come on the floor of the chapel.

I wanted it. God. What is wrong with me?

I set the clutch on my desk and walk into the bathroom, stripping off the dress as I go, dropping it right into the trash can. I don’t think that stain would come out anyway. I switch on the shower as hot as I can stand it, step into the glass enclosure, and think about his words.

Did Reginald Bishop really rape Mary St. James? And in a church? Is anyone capable of that? Yes. Of course, they are. That’s a stupid question.

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