Page 70 of Bishop

“It ain’t hard when I haven’t slept in a week. I’m running on fumes here.”

“In that case, I’m surprised you haven’t killed me by now with all the stunts I’ve pulled.” I ache to touch him again. To graze my fingers over his beard.

“Believe me, so am I.”

I grin, halfhearted, yet my humor quickly fades. “Then sleep. Go to bed.”

“I can’t do that when you’re going to run as soon as I’m horizontal.”

“I’ll stay. I promise.”

He mimics my whisper of a laugh. “I’d love to believe you, Abri, but I’m sure your promises carry the same underhanded tactics as mine. And I’m too tired to figure out your strategies. I won’t risk failing you again.”

I frown. Failing me?

His gaze lowers to my neck as he raises a hand. I stiffen with the gentle trail of his thumb over my bruises. “I should’ve got to you sooner. For that I apologize.”

“I’ve suffered through worse.”

Anger wrinkles his forehead. “Was that when this happened?” His touch moves to my scar. The puckered flesh close to my carotid is just another reminder of what my father put me through.

“No. That was due to a run-in with Cole Torian the night Layla’s husband died.”

His attention raises to mine, his eyes narrow, spiteful slits. “Torian did this.”

I shake my head. “It was self-inflicted.”

“Explain.”

“It’s a long story. One I can share after you get some rest.”

“I’m not sleep—”

I grab his wrist in both hands, and although I despise myself for what I’m about to do, I use the skills my father taught me, peering up at Bishop with pleading innocence, my tongue meekly swiping my lower lip.

Remorse floods my veins. Disgust, too.

But he falls under my spell like so many men in my past, his attention lowering to my mouth, his anger dissipating.

“How ’bout I do you a deal?” I drag his arm down to his side, then release my hold. “Panic attacks always wipe me out. So I’ll lay in bed with you, then you won’t have to worry that I’ll run.”

15

BISHOP

“That’s a bad idea, belladonna.” I school my expression as the visual of her suggestion rams my frontal lobe. Her body lax. Her hair splayed on the pillow next to mine.

Fuck that. I’m already too close to her.

“Why not?” Her nose crinkles. “Are you worried you’ll become traumatized by sharing a bed with a poisonous flower?”

No. I’m worried I’ll enjoy it.

“Look, Bishop, you’re dead on your feet, and after my second embarrassing breakdown, I really do need the extra rest. We both have to be clearheaded if we’re going to find Tilly, right?”

I understand her logic but all my surging testosterone can focus on is that chemise. The way it hangs low at the front. The generous show of cleavage. How it glides over her smooth curves.

“I’m not going to try and have sex with you.” She gives a half-hearted smile—one that doesn’t reach her eyes. “I’m a working girl, remember? I’m not going to give that stuff out for free.”

---