Page 29 of Bishop

I disconnect and slide the cell back into my pocket as I edge up to the door. There’s no sound. Not that I expected any when the entire house is choked by silence.

I gradually twist the handle, push the door open an inch, and peer inside.

The scent of her hits me. The perfumed sweetness. The misleading purity.

The light from the hall creeps over the end of a ruffled pink bed, the outline of a body hidden beneath the covers.

She doesn’t move. Doesn’t even stir.

I edge my way inside, my shadow creeping across her still form in sinister shades of grey as I spy my jacket dumped in a messy pile on the carpet. I close the door behind me, returning the room to darkness, and measure my steps closer, not stopping until I’m peering down at the devil trapped in an angel’s body.

Her cheek rests against the pillow, her hair splayed behind her while her fingers clutch the covers held close to her chin. Those long lashes lay against flawless creamy skin, her pouty lips slightly parted.

I haven’t seen her without makeup before, yet funnily enough, this version of her is more mesmerizing. When she’s stripped back. Without all those fraudulent layers.

Like this I could almost be fool enough to think she’s normal. Not a viper. Not a vixen. Not a venomous dick trap of a woman who’s witless enough to drug a man like me.

I should grab those covers and plaster them over her head, returning all those thoughtful smothering vibes she gave me.

Instead, I grab my jacket, putting it on as I retreat to the wall and sink down to the floor.

The clock on the bedside table glows a bright 4:21. I can still catch a few hours rest and dissolve the remaining trace of sedatives in my system.

Only I don’t sleep.

I find myself staring at her shadowed form, trying to align all the beauty with the overwhelming treachery.

She should’ve asked Matthew for help years ago. Despite the estrangement, he would’ve done anything for her. He still would. Only now she’ll have to live with all the shit she’s done.

I yawn and lean my head back against the wall, dozing.

I wake every time her breathing hitches. Every time she shifts. Until those breaths and movements become a waking sequence, and the sunlight of a new morning squeezes past the edge of her curtains.

She groans then kicks off her covers, exposing a whole heap of smooth thigh.

I clear my throat.

She gasps and jackknifes to a seated position grabbing the bedsheet to clutch it at her chin as her eyes meet mine. Why she’s suddenly modest I have no idea, but I enjoy the contrast from the way she gave zero fucks last night.

“Morning.” I spread my legs out in front of me, calm and cocky. “Sleep well?”

“What are you doing in my room?” She glares. “Besides enjoying the view.”

“I’m enjoying the view as much as the killer headache, thanks to your pharmaceutical interference. Did you know your parents weren’t home before you drove me into enemy territory?”

“I covered you.”

“So that wasn’t a failed suffocation attempt?”

She rolls those pretty eyes. “If I wanted you dead you’d be dancing with the devil.”

It kinda feels like I already am. If not the devil, then one of his pretty little minions.

“If you’re worried about my father, why are you still here?” She scoots to the edge of the mattress, the covers still held to her chin as she snatches a scarf from the bedside table. “He could turn up at any minute.”

“I doubt that.”

“Why?” She grips the sheet with one hand, wraps the scarf around her neck with the other, then slides from the bed in a tiny slip of satin fabric that delicately rests against her subtle curves.

---