Page 52 of Bishop

“Eat,” I repeat. “You need something in your system other than caffeine, otherwise that tremble in your hands will only increase.”

She cringes and clasps her fingers together, tempering the tremor.

“Now.” My tone carries a demand as I take another bite of chicken. “I promise to quit talking about him.”

She doesn’t move.

“I said I’d drop the conversation,” I grate. “Now sit.”

Her shoulders slump but finally she obeys, slowly lowering to her seat to scoot it back in under the table.

“You should have a glass of wine.” I jerk my chin toward the kitchen. “There’s a bottle of red in the pantry.”

“No, thanks. I have to stay awake.”

“What you need is sleep.”

She ignores me and attempts to eat a chicken wing with a knife and fork, painstakingly carving strips of meat. It’s basically threads of shredded protein as she holds her scarf to her chest in one hand and forks the food into her mouth with the other.

“You don’t need to wear that around me.” I dump another cleaned bone on my plate.

“Hmm?” She keeps intricately slicing, not meeting my gaze.

“The scarf. You should take it off.” I don’t want her to hide her scars. I prefer the reminder of her imperfection.

She forks another shred of chicken, barely enough to feed a mouse, and places it between her flawless lips.

I keep eating. Keep watching. Keep waiting for her to obey me.

She chews. Swallows. Runs her tongue over her bottom lip. Then finally, she places her fork to her plate and removes the material around her throat to lay it on the table.

My pulse increases. It’s a temperamental mix of triumph over her acquiescence with a volatile kick of animosity as she exposes the bruising now darker than it was in the shower yesterday.

I should’ve taken Gordon’s life in that hotel room.

I should’ve killed them all.

Slowly.

Methodically.

Ruthlessly.

“Are you ready to have the conversation about who hurt you?” I drag my gaze from her marred skin and grab another wing.

“I’ve told you before, it doesn’t—”

“I’m obligated to right the wrongs, Abri.” And even if obligation played no role, I’d still punish those responsible, if not due to my loyalty to Lorenzo, then out of respect to Langston. “Was it Gordon?”

“No.” She dumps her fork atop the bed of rice and pushes her plate away, the food barely eaten.

“Do you know the names of the other two?”

She sighs. “Bishop—”

“I’m stuck out here with nothing to occupy my violent mind, belladonna. It’s best if you give me something to focus on.”

Her eyes meet mine. She stares for a moment, her silent thoughts making me itch to find out whether she’s smart enough to fear me yet.

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