Page 100 of Bishop

She shudders, my pulse pounding through her silence until finally she whispers, “It was you, Bishop. You’re responsible for those bruises.”

I stiffen.

“In the hotel room,” she murmurs. “On the bed.”

The flashback hits—her thighs around my neck, my fingers digging into her flesh to stop her from choking me.

My anger grows tenfold. At myself. At her forgiveness. At this whole ridiculously messed up situation.

I’m always so fucking angry around her. Clouded, yet undeniably livid.

I release her chin and straighten, glaring down at her. “I’m responsible, yet you ignorantly still consider me a good guy? What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“You are a good guy.”

I bare my teeth. “Do you want to know—”

“No.” She cuts me off, her chin raised in defiance. “I don’t want to know. Whatever you plan to say, I suggest you quit wasting your time. I’ve spent years reading men. Learning their intricacies. Understanding the way their minds work for the sake of underhanded manipulation but also for my safety. And I know enough about you to draw the right conclusions.”

“Obviously not.”

“You’re a good man,” she repeats. “You got behind the wheel, while drugged, to save me from Gordon. You ended the life of someone who hurt me. You even held your tongue when I destroyed your steak.” Her lips quirk in a subtle smile that quickly fades. “I could’ve killed you. You were only defending yourself. No harm. No foul.”

“I have kids,” I snarl.

She balks, her brows pinching.

“That’s the last words Finch said before I killed him—I have kids.” I lean closer, our noses almost touching. “I did not give a shit. I still don’t. I have no remorse. No guilt. I’ve ended the lives of more people than you can imagine, in ways that would haunt you, and I sleep like a fucking baby.”

“A bear,” she whispers. “You sleep like a bear.”

She still doesn’t get it.

I turn on my heel, needing to get out of here before I detonate.

“Don’t you dare.” She grabs my arm. “Don’t walk away from me.”

I scowl over my shoulder, one quick heartbeat away from making her regret how fucking stupid she’s being.

“If those bruises are such a monumental crime, then make up for it.” She raises a defiant brow. “Get on your knees, macellaio.”

My nostrils flare. “Get on my fucking knees?”

How dare she? And how dare my cock harden all over again?

I picture myself there. At her feet. Between her thighs. But it’s not remorse that would guide my mouth to her pussy. It’s all the pent up rage I need to get out of my system.

She lowers her gaze, taking in the sight of my resurging dick with the slightest hint of superiority. “Be a good little macellaio and give me what I want.”

This is a game to her, fun, while I’m on the precipice of losing my ever-loving mind over a woman I shouldn’t look at, let alone touch.

I grin angrily at the taunt, so full of malicious intent I’m almost scared for her. Almost. “You still want to believe I’m a good guy?” I eat up the space between us, getting in her face. “You’re committed to playing these games?”

“I’m not—”

I clamp a hand over her mouth, the sound of her gasp shooting through the cracks between my fingers. “You want me on my knees, belladonna?”

She stares at me. Wide-eyed. Breaths heaving.

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