Page 107 of Bishop

The violent snap back into defense mode has me reeling.

“I don’t know what I was thinking.” My voice breaks, betraying what little strength I’d hoped to display.

“Shit,” he mutters. “Are you good?”

“Yeah.” I nod. Wave him away. I’m well aware it must be unconvincing when my eyes remain clamped shut.

“Look at me,” he demands.

“Just give me a second.” I sink my teeth into my bottom lip, hoping the urge to vomit will suddenly disappear.

“Now, Abri. Fucking look at me.”

So many times he’s demanded my attention. So many instances when the moments following his order have brought me back from the brink of a panic attack.

I open my eyes, his fathomless blue depths staring back at me in furious anguish.

“You’re safe,” he states firmly.

I nod even though I feel more volatile than ever. More hollow. More alone.

I raise onto my elbows. “I, ah, really am sorry.” I push from the bed, force a laugh. “That was a close call.”

He watches me, his gaze fierce enough to heat my cheeks. “It was a dangerous fucking call, belladonna. You’re lucky I didn’t splatter that gorgeous face all over my pillows.”

I wince. Nod again. Squeeze my fingers together in an attempt to stop the tremble.

His attention lowers to my clutched hands, his jaw ticking. “You’re not okay.”

The concern threatens to break me. “It’s the adrenaline.”

His scowl deepens. But he doesn’t offer more concern. Instead, he rolls over, flicks off the light and plunges the room into darkness. “Get into bed, Abri.”

I pause. “Yours or mine?”

He scoffs. “God forbid I deny a woman who risks her life to climb between my sheets.”

The heat from my face lowers, carving a path through my chest.

The overwhelming sense of stupidity hasn’t fled. It’s still right there, pumping like a freight train through my veins. Yet comfort sings to me, pushing me to move forward.

I pull back the covers, my body remaining a slave to the tremble in my limbs, and slide in beside him.

For a few tense moments, there’s nothing but the still of night. The heavy silence of mistakes.

Neither one of us moves. It’s a painful stretch of time where I relive the memory of his gun pressed to my cheek, my heart remaining in my throat.

“Have you finally learned to be frightened of me, belladonna?”

Something about his question sends a shiver over my skin—one that isn’t entirely unpleasant. “I’m not scared of you, Bishop. I am scared of guns, though.”

“A gun is an object. It’s the person wielding it that’s the threat.”

“I know. But…”

“There’s no ‘but.’ You crept into my room while I was asleep. I could’ve killed you. I would’ve been the one responsible for your death. Not a goddamn piece of metal.”

Bile continues to churn in my stomach, and the last thing I want to do is continue being a withering fool in front of him. He’s already endured my tears and panic attacks. The pleas for help and the blubbering about my past.

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