Page 106 of Bishop

That doesn’t work either. The moment I take the last sip of liquid fuel, the sex high now well and truly faded, my mind reverts to attack mode, my thoughts flooding with anxieties I’m still not ready to face.

Being with Bishop had been the most exquisite distraction.

Which is why it isn’t surprising that I now find myself in front of his bedroom, clueless at how I’m going to explain the late-night interruption when I whisper against the door, “Hey, are you awake?”

He doesn’t answer. I’m not sure why I expect him to after he practically ran to get away from me earlier.

I grab the knob, quietly turning it until I can push the door open.

“Bishop?” I step inside, the far-off light from the kitchen drifting down the hall to cast a slight glow across the carpeted floor, his bed bathed in shadow. “Can we talk?”

I don’t care what we chat about. He can yell at me for all he likes. The verbal sparring match will still be a reprieve from the mental onslaught that has me picturing my daughter in an unmarked grave as my mother shovels dirt on top.

“Are you asleep?” I ask.

I’m certain he’s not. I know what his slumber sounds like and it isn’t this calm, muted silence.

“I can’t switch off.” I close the door behind me and creep toward the end of his bed. “And although I’m well aware that’s not your problem, I wondered if I could stay in here in case you get an update. That way I don’t have to lie in my room wondering if I’ll be alert enough to hear if you get another call.”

Not only do I want a distraction and the ability to eavesdrop, I also need the opportunity to test the waters. To see how much he loathes me for forcing him to face his lust.

We both know he never wanted to touch me.

Not the first time. Or the second.

And the thought of him regretting the moments that are now woven around my libido like silken ribbons digs into me like a vine of spiky thorns.

“It can be like last time but in reverse.” I head for the side of the bed I previously slept on. “It’s my turn to stay on top of the covers.”

Still there’s no response.

No bark of protest. No hiss of dissent.

“Bishop?” I murmur.

He grunts and I’m not sure if it’s an affirmative response, but I take it, gently easing myself on top of the duvet, my head hitting the pillow.

Before I can relax my shoulders, the mattress jolts. There’s a snap of movement. A swish of sheets. Then hard, unyielding metal digs into my cheekbone, his gun cold against my flaming skin.

I don’t move.

Barely even breathe.

“Bishop…” I force myself not to succumb to panic, to remain calm like my father taught me, but that training is hard to cling to under the threat of death. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”

“Abri?” Confusion clings to his gruff tone. “What the fuck?”

The cold metal disappears. The bed bumps. His bedside lamp flicks on, blinding me.

I squeeze my eyes shut, thankful for a reason to turn my face away.

“Are you fucking crazy?” he snaps. “I could’ve killed you. You’re lucky I grabbed my gun and not my goddamn knife.”

I scrunch my nose and nod. “It was stupid.”

So fucking stupid.

I hold the air in my lungs, swallowing back the bile that’s formed a whirlpool in my stomach. Obviously, it’s not the first time I’ve been caught in a dangerous bedroom situation, but it’s the only instance where I’ve willingly gone to a man with my guards lowered.

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