Page 118 of Bishop

“Don’t,” I snarl.

“Understood.” She turns and walks out of view, muttering under her breath.

I wish I could do the same. Walk away. Get the fuck out of here.

Instead I turn to the door separating me from Abri and rest my forehead against the barrier between us. “Open the door, belladonna.” The request is barely audible. “You have to tell them what’s going on.”

“No, thank you,” she replies with a chipper tone. “I’d prefer to stay in here and self-medicate until you fix my fucking car.”

Self-medicate? The sniffing was because of the coke?

Son of a goddamn bitch.

My temper explodes, all hope of resolving this peacefully disappearing in a blink as I step back, then plant my foot below the door handle with a heavy kick.

The jamb splinters, the flimsy barrier she’d hoped to keep between us swinging violently toward the wall.

She gives a bitter smile as she sits on the far side of her bed, now dressed in jeans and a blouse, her hair pulled back in a pony. She crosses her arms over her chest, a scarf covering the scar on her neck while that vial lays open and discarded on the carpeted floor.

“Big fucking mistake.” I stalk inside, my rage ratcheting to notches I’ve never felt before.

She raises a haughty brow, but it’s the mask she wears that pisses me off the most—the heartless ballbuster persona with her defenses high and her spite higher.

“What the fuck is going on?” Langston yells.

“Nothing,” I snap back. “I’ll have her out in a minute.”

Abri rolls her eyes with a huffed laugh. “Will you?”

“Don’t do that,” I warn her.

“Do what?”

I continue to the end of the bed, nothing but a few feet of space between me and more mistakes. “Pretend you’re a snake. I don’t like that game.”

“Oh, sweetie, that part was never the game.” Her lips curve into a sly smile. “That’s the real me. You got played by the fake tears and anxiety attacks.”

A cold chill runs down my spine, my breath temporarily locked in my lungs.

She grins. “Surprise.”

Bullshit.

Bull-fucking-shit.

She let down her walls for me. I know she did. This right here is the goddamn game.

“It was all an act?” I stalk to her side of the bed, aggression fueling each step.

“Mm-hmm.” She nods.

It’s a defense mechanism. A barrier to pain. Just like those fucking drugs. All because I dulled the picket fence around her heart. Now those pointy tips are sharp as knives.

“I didn’t do this to hurt you, belladonna.”

“But I knew you would. That’s why I bought myself time with the theatrics. I needed you to find my mother.” She shrugs, her malice so fucking pretty, her fire a potent aphrodisiac. “It’s what I do.”

“No, it’s not,” I growl. “At least not with me it isn’t.”

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