Page 39 of Bishop

Humble sounds good on her. Too good.

I reach behind her and turn on the hot tap, my other arm still holding her tight. I’m not ready to trust she won’t buckle to the floor.

Lukewarm water pours between us, taking away the bitter chill.

I cradle her back, measuring the slowing rise and fall of her breaths as her scarf slides from her neck to slap hard against the tile. She’s out of the woods—at least for now. But who knows what delightful surprises she’ll challenge me with next?

“Does this happen often?” I reach around to increase the warmth a fraction. My shoes are drenched. My socks, pants, and shirt, too. Not to mention my fucking gun.

She doesn’t answer.

“When was the last time you ate, belladonna?”

“Why do you call me that?” She gently pushes from my chest, her Bambi eyes finding mine. “Isn’t belladonna a flower?”

“Yes,” I murmur. “A poisonous one.”

Pretty but toxic. Just like her.

She winces, her attention lowering to my shirt.

She can’t be hurt by my description. I’m sure she’s been labelled far worse without the barbs penetrating her Teflon coating.

She inches farther away, creating a small ravine between us, my arms still cinched around her back. But the space isn’t my concern—it’s the abnormality in my periphery that steals my attention.

I lower my gaze to her throat, seeing the scar she spoke of, the jagged line an inch above her clavicle and roughly a finger long. But it’s not the puckered skin that turns my blood to acid. It’s the bruise that circles her neck in vibrant shades of blue, purple, and pink.

Rage infuses my blood, the fury increasing the longer I scrutinize her injury.

Not only did she lie last night, she protected the assholes responsible.

“Which one of them did this?” My tone is lethal as I raise a hand, dragging a thumb over the abuse.

She stays silent. Unresponsive.

Her skin is like velvet under my fingertips, creamy and smooth. How someone can be so soft yet incredibly thorny at the same time is beyond me. But she does it well. Yields to my touch yet remains silently unruly. Fragile in the aftermath of her panic attack and also infuriatingly hardened.

I drag my touch over the darkest purple patch on the right side of her neck, fury creating havoc in my veins at whoever dared to hurt her.

She flinches.

“Who, Abri?” Steam billows between us from the shower.

She shakes her head. “It doesn’t matter.”

“It does when it means the difference between one death or three.” I keep my tone calm despite the murderous intent. “Do you want them all to die?”

She raises her chin, defiant. “It’s not your score to settle.”

I lean down to her eye level. “Like hell it isn’t. It happened on my watch, which means it’s my mistake to correct. No niece under Lorenzo’s protection should ever be touched.”

I anticipate her defiance. Her retaliation.

But all she does is stare at me while my thumb continues to take liberties with her neck, the waterfall cascading over her shoulder, every inch of her exposed skin moist and dewy, including those lips.

“Tell me a name, Abri.”

She shakes her head. “A lot has changed since last night. I don’t want to look back.”

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