Page 186 of Bishop

I have Tilly’s location. That’s all I need. She’s who I risked my life for. The only reason I deceived Bishop.

But Geppet was in a car with my mother for days. Do I want to know why she hated me so much? Why she tortured me with my daughter’s absence for years? Why she stole the only thing I’ve ever cared about?

“Belladonna?” Bishop steps closer, placing a soothing hand to my cheek.

I swallow. Shake my head. “No.” I hold his gaze. “I don’t need anything else.”

The reasons for Adena’s hatred don’t matter. They won’t change who she is. What she’s done.

“Are you sure?” His brow furrows. “I’ve still got a lot of skills left to use.”

“Of that I have no doubt, but there’s nothing else.”

He strokes his thumb over my cheek. “Alright.” He swings back to face his craftsmanship on the wall, fluidly grabbing a blade from his pocket and raising it to his victim.

Geppet’s mouth opens. Before he can protest, the knife is embedded in the side of his neck, then quickly retrieved, the gush of blood spraying from his carotid like a broken faucet.

I stand stunned, watching the river of crimson arc the air as Geppet remains pinned to the wall, unable to clutch the wound.

The shock of approaching death haunts his face, his stare fixed on me in a silent plea. I drag in a shaky breath, knowing I should look away while being powerless to comply.

“Come with me.” Bishop grabs my hand, dragging my stunned ass from the horror, my gaze not leaving the gruesomeness until I’m tugged around the corner. “Are you okay?”

I blink the new room into view in a daze. The eighties-style kitchen with its bright orange countertops and old wooden cupboards, the curtain-less window giving sight to the moon. But all I see is Geppet. All I can picture is the stream of life rushing from his body. How long will it take for him to die?

“Abri?” Bishop closes in on me, his hands sliding up my arms. “Come back to me.”

I lick my drying lips and focus, peering into the soul of a brutal murderer. Every stab wound he inflicted replays in my mind. Every fierce demand echoes through my head.

There’s not even an ounce of blood on him, his brutality so efficient he’s left without a stain.

Yet those eyes sing to me in a melody of concern and fear.

He confuses me with his savage violence that’s equally potent to his fierce protection. He’s strong and sure and unfathomably confident. He’s also damaged and pained and heartbreakingly vulnerable.

All his conflicting attributes meld together in a dance of wild savagery that’s so mesmerizingly beautiful it almost hurts trying to understand him.

But I do understand him.

I appreciate the violence that stems from a tormented childhood. His commanding need to protect after the loss of his sister. The loyalty he learned from the men who finally showed him what it was like to have a family.

I shake my head, trying to remember where I am and why we’re here, because those intense eyes make the rest of the world disappear.

“Now I understand why they call you the Butcher,” I whisper.

He winces, releasing my arms.

“It’s not criticism.” I quickly grab his lapels, reconnecting the tether between us. “I’m thankful.”

“Don’t mention it.” He retreats, my arms falling to my sides.

“Then don’t go cold on me. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” He rubs a rough hand over his beard. “I need you to remove your top.”

I blink at the sudden change in topic, my insides instinctively warming without my permission. “Excuse me?”

“To check your injuries.”

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