Page 66 of Bishop

“But I never saw or spoke to him again until the morning Tilly was born.” Her tone pitches, the high notes exposing emotion she struggles to trap inside.

“What did he do, belladonna?” I drop my hold on her chin, cautious my building rage had tightened my grip.

She straightens her shoulders, seeming to take the pain head on. “As soon as I gave birth, he took her from me. I haven’t seen her since.”

14

ABRI

He stares at me, eyes fixed, nostrils flaring. He’s angry, and I don’t know if the turbulent emotion is directed at my father’s actions or the shameful way I’ve led my life.

Both are reprehensible.

“Do you know if she’s still alive?” he asks.

I nod, swallowing over the painful restriction of my throat. “It’s how he got me to do his bidding. He’d ask me to extort someone, and in return I was promised a photo. Or a video. Sometimes he’d give me one of her drawings etched in crayon. But I never receive anything without earning it first.”

His fists clench, the fury ebbing off of him.

“Are you angry at me?” I shuffle close to the edge of the counter, about to scoot to my feet to gain much-needed distance.

“No,” he snarls.

I don’t know why he bothers lying when revulsion is etched into every tight line of his face. The broad stiffness of his posture.

This is why I couldn’t tell my brothers. I couldn’t bear their judgement.

So I kept Tilly’s existence to myself.

The pain.

The torment.

The shame.

It’s not like anyone could help me anyway. Not against my father’s control. So I let it eat away at me until I became exactly how Bishop describes me. A belladonna. A poisonous work of nature.

“There’s no need to lie.” I push from the counter, hating how I have to stabilize myself against his chest as my feet hit the floor.

“I’m not.” The same tone is sneered at me as he reaches out, stopping me from fleeing with a tight grip around my chin.

He forces my face to his, his hard stare weighing down on me. “My rage is for you, not against.”

My heart squeezes, the vehement sincerity in his tone, touch, and gaze fracturing me further.

“I wish your father was still alive.” His voice is menacing. “So I could kill him myself.”

They’re brutal words cut from the darkest depths of humanity. But I cling to them, cherishing each syllable because they feel like the only support I’ve ever had.

My eyes burn, the moisture blurring my vision.

I will not cry.

He watches me as if entranced, the seconds ticking by through thunderous heartbeats, then abruptly he looks away, his rough fingers falling from my face.

He stands in the middle of the kitchen, focused on the counter, his thoughts unreadable.

I should leave him alone to contemplate the new state of events. I need to wash the sleep from my face. Get changed. Pull myself together.

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