Page 67 of Bishop

Only I can’t move.

I stand there, silent, patiently waiting for a glimmer of insight.

One minute passes… Two.

“Tell me what you’re thinking,” I ask, pitiful and weak.

“I’m trying to piece it all together.” He wipes a hand over his stubble. “I’ve misjudged you. But it all makes sense now. Why you fought to stay in Gordon’s hotel suite. Why you were even there in the first place.” He turns to face me. “You’re an exceptional actress, Abri, and an even better manipulator. I just didn’t know those skills hid sexual slavery.”

I wince.

I’m not a slave. Not really.

“How could your brothers let this happen?” he growls.

My throat dries. I’m so incredibly angry with Remy and Salvatore. Matthew, too. But they aren’t responsible for this. I’m the only one accountable for the steps I took into so-called slavery. “They didn’t know.”

“Bullshit.”

“No.” In this I can’t blame them. “They couldn’t have. Working for my father started a lifetime ago, and I was complicit in the beginning.”

His eyes narrow on me, but he doesn’t voice the questions plaguing him.

“My father has had me exploiting powerful men since I hit puberty.” I huff a sardonic laugh. “After a childhood of him ignoring my existence, he finally seemed to see me…I didn’t realize until years later that it wasn’t me he saw, just the benefits my appearance and innocence could provide.”

“This started when you were a teen?”

“Thirteen.”

“Son of a fucking bitch,” he mutters under his breath.

“It wasn’t like it is now. It began with small favors. He would ask me to flirt with a wealthy colleague. To bat my lashes and pretend I was infatuated. And I liked it. The men would lavish me with compliments. Wealthy, successful men. They made me feel beautiful… Special.”

I’d been such a pathetic fool. I guess I still am—I just learned to hide it through a flawlessly arrogant facade.

“Then the years passed and the stakes increased. ‘Seduce Justin Gardner into kissing you.’” I mimic my father’s voice. “‘Start texting Malcolm Miller. Send photos. Don’t stop until he sends some back.’”

I still remember the first dick pic I received. How it had made me sick, even scared, yet oddly empowered.

“Emmanuel taught me how to manipulate these men. He’d take me out for dinner and we’d people watch for hours. He’d point out the women who had the upper hand in a relationship on sight alone and tell me how to mimic them. He outlined how most men valued very few things over power and pleasure. He made it seem simple. That if I could be their pleasure, I could steal their power.” I shrug. “So I did.”

Bishop’s jaw ticks.

“I wanted it,” I reiterate, turning that anger on myself, bearing the punishment of my stupidity.

“You didn’t know any better,” he snarls.

“Maybe at first. But I figured it out.”

“And?”

My lungs tighten, the ability to breathe becoming harder all over again. “And I didn’t do anything about it. I still wanted the attention. I loved bringing powerful men to their knees. And I enjoyed making my father proud.”

“When did you start fucking men for him?”

I flinch. “A few days before I turned eighteen.”

Bishop shakes his head, disgusted. “Your brothers have a lot to answer for.”

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