Page 12 of Bishop

The narcotic numbness in my veins turns against me. All the euphoric undertones blaze into angry wildfire. Panic-infused terror. “I’m not a masochist, Gordon. I don’t do violence.”

Finch stops a few feet in front of me. “You do tonight.”

Shit.

The stun gun weighs heavy in my clutch yet there’s no way I can use it. I have to figure this out without offending him.

“I need specifics.” I hold a hand up to stop Finch’s approach. “What do you mean by violence?”

Maybe it’s nothing more than BDSM. A slap here and there. A harsh grip. Strong hands.

“Get back on the bed, Abri.” Gordon strokes his dick through his briefs.

“I will once you clarify terms.”

Finch steps closer.

I’m forced to retreat. “Gordon, I’m serious.”

Finch reaches out, grabbing the long lengths of my scarf in both hands.

“Stop.” I drop my clutch to the bed and grasp for the material around my neck. “It remains on.”

“I had no plan to remove it.” He grins, then yanks both ends, cinching the material tight around my throat.

Pain lances my neck as I claw at the restriction, fighting for breath.

I choke. Cough. Attempt to scream.

He pulls tighter, my throat a ring of fire, my face burning as I tug and pull before the material suddenly loosens.

What the fuck?

I stumble backward and hunch over, heaving for air, my hands clutching my knees in an attempt to remain upright.

Finch follows, leaning in, his mouth near my ear. “He said get on the bed, bitch.”

4

BISHOP

I watch the numbers increase above the elevator Abri took upstairs.

Five. Six. Seven.

What deep fucking shit has she got herself into?

Eight. Nine. Ten.

I pull out my cell and dial Langston’s number for the hundredth time.

Eleven. Twelve. Thirteen.

His voicemail cuts in like goddamn clockwork.

Fourteen. Fifteen. Sixteen.

“Where the fuck are you?” I snap. “Your sister is hanging with a kiddie fiddler and if he doesn’t kill her, I will.”

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