“Why did you help me?” I ask before I can think about what I’m doing.
He looks confused. “What?”
“At the chapel. Why did you help me if you hate me? Why not let those men do what they wanted to do to me?”
“Ah.”
I take a step away from him and feel the wall at my back. There’s nowhere for me to go.
He sees my disadvantage. Sees he has me cornered. And like any good predator, he advances, only stopping when he’s closer than he was at the chapel. When I can almost feel the heat coming off him. The sheer power of him like waves of electric energy ready to zap me.
“Isabelle Bishop,” he says, noting the dozen hair pins I dropped on the nightstand before taking a thick lock of my hair into his hand. I’d taken it out of its chignon. It was so tight it gave me a headache. But now as I watch him, I wonder if I should have left it in that bun because he begins to twist a handful of it around his fist. I count one, two, three, four turns. My hair reaches my waist and he’ll use even that to his advantage.
I expect him to pull, to hurt me, and I brace myself.
His gaze meets mine and I study him. This close, I can see the specks of gold in his eyes, the ring of black around the gray one. He tugs my hair, holding it taut forcing my head to tilt backward.
“You weren’t his to break. You’re mine.”
I swallow as my shoulders shiver. I wrap my arms around myself, too much of me exposed in this wilting, ruined dress, too much of me left unprotected.
He unwinds my hair, knuckles purposefully grazing my bare shoulder and then sliding across to my collarbone, to the long, ugly scar there. His eyebrows furrow as he studies it, touches the scar tissue, the dark tracks of the stitches.
When his eyes meet mine again, that shiver turns into a full shudder and my chest heaves with each breath.
His gaze drops to watch the swell of my breasts.
I try not to hyperventilate while his knuckles leave a trail of goosebumps down my arm, over the crease of my elbow. He takes my hand and turns it over, brushing the backs of his fingers back and forth from wrist to elbow and back again and again and again. The sensation is sensual and utterly terrifying.
“It fits you, that scar,” he says. “Something ugly on something so very beautiful. A warning.”
I struggle to follow, but I can’t think right now. Not with the way he’s touching me.
“I plan to break you slowly, Isabelle Bishop.”
My knees wobble.
“I will enjoy every moment,” he says.
I lean against the wall for support.
“It wouldn’t do to let that boy touch you. So, I wasn’t so much helping you as I was helping myself. Making sure the goods weren’t damaged before I took possession.”
He lets my arm drop, and his gaze shifts once again to my collarbone.
“Tell me about this scar.”
“I fell.” It’s true but only half and I’m not wasting my words on him. I was pushed, took a tumble down the stairs and broke my clavicle, for starters, the night Christian was killed. I was lucky, though, because I’m sure that man would have broken much more if he wasn’t interrupted by the wail of sirens. One of our neighbors had heard my screams and called the police.
“Any other flaws you’re hiding?” he asks.
I’m not sure he’s waiting for my reply, but I shake my head anyway.
“Hm. I’ll see for myself, I think.” He takes a step back but there’s no relief when he sets one hand on the wall over my head and leans his weight into it. I note, however, that the door is still open behind him and Dex is gone. “Take off your dress, Isabelle.”
My throat goes dry, my entire body tense, nipples hard, belly doing strange flips.
“I… What?”