Page 71 of Bishop

I should’ve known her seductive side was nothing more than a role. A fucking charade. I see through it now to the tormented woman beneath. Why didn’t Salvatore and Remy do the same?

“Okay, this is depressing.” She sighs. “You know your worth has to be in the gutter when the Butcher of Baltimore, who not only killed a man hours ago but also strangled another, won’t even lie in the same vicinity as you to get the rest he clearly needs.”

Jesus Christ. Does she ever let up?

I start for the hall, done with this conversation. “Hurry up and get in my fucking bed, Abri.” I march to my room. Drag closed the curtains. Kick off my shoes.

I keep my gaze away from her as I pull my gun from the back of my waistband and shove it under my pillow, then climb into bed.

I don’t remove my jacket. I don’t even loosen my fucking belt.

I remain on top of the duvet. Close my eyes. And don’t open my fucking peepers for nothing.

I don’t watch her climb in beside me. I don’t even blink to confirm she’s crawled under the covers, because thankfully they rustle as she slides beneath them. But the downside to the darkness is how my imagination creates its own damn display.

I picture her facing me. Watching me. Those lips close enough to plunder.

I roll away. Turn my back to her. Hear her defeated sigh.

Did she expect me to fucking snuggle?

The silence stretches, the seconds ticking by with my entire body tense. I can’t sleep like this. Not with Langston’s sister in my bed. Not with the vision of every inch of her tattooed into my grey matter.

But she sure as shit doesn’t have the same problem.

Within ten minutes her breathing deepens, the steady rhythm of slumber slowly coaxing me to relax.

I roll onto my back. Then fucking despise myself for watching her from the corner of my eye. Breathing in the beauty that hid a tormented life.

I’m pissed I was wrong.

That I had her pegged as a conniving, manipulative bitch. And yeah, she’s still conniving and manipulative, but the bitch part was off base.

She was an exploited child.

Now she’s a frantic mother.

Her father should’ve suffered. Long and hard. I would’ve made him beg for the peace of death.

I stare at her for what feels like an hour, rewriting history with my new understanding to see those events played by the woman she is and not the viper she portrays.

She was going to willingly be beaten and raped by Gordon and his men. For what? A video of her daughter? A finger painting?

I wouldn’t have a kid if I had the last dick on Earth and civilization depended on me impregnating a harem of supermodels, and here she is, selling her soul for proof of life.

I watch the flutter of her long curved lashes. Discover the barely visible freckles across her nose. She holds the covers to her chin like always, and it seems fucking strange that I even know that’s her thing.

I’m sure she does it because of the scar on her neck. She’s self-conscious. Or maybe it’s due to instinctual protection. Does she shield her throat so history doesn’t repeat itself?

Fuck Cole Torian. I’m going to get to the bottom of that story, too, and if he’s responsible for her injury I’ll—

What, asshole? What the fuck are you going to do? Why do you even care?

This is a job. A duty. One that revolves around current events, not those in the past.

If Torian did wrong by her, Langston has to deal with it. Lorenzo can go to war if he wants. My nose needs to stay well away from that shit.

I close my eyes. Breathe deep. Force my body to relax.

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