Page 113 of Bishop

I should’ve ended it last night.

Are you close to getting me out of your system? Her question was a blinding neon sign to quit this shit. An escape route.

Yes, Abri. Not only am I close, I’m done. Finished.

That’s what I should have said, but it wasn’t my response. I had to have her twice more, her greedy pleas only increasing the sexual soundtrack that now runs through my head on a loop.

Every time I touch her I want more. There’s no relief after release—only increased need. Excessive hunger.

She’s a vise, just like the vial she keeps in the top drawer of the nightstand in her room. A weakness I may not need, but fuck, I crave it.

I climb out of bed, careful not to wake her as I grab my gun from under the pillow.

I shower and dress in the bathroom, my suit no longer just hiding the weapons I carry but also the marks she’s left on my body. The hickeys. The scratches.

I’m in the living room on the sofa when the squeak of mattress springs carry from my bed, followed by the pad of soft footfalls. And like a spineless prick, I march to the front porch for a cigarette, kidding myself that I’m not trying to hide from her.

She needs to be told Langston is coming. He could be hours. Or minutes. Not that it matters. She’ll sharpen her claws as soon as she finds out I told him to get his ass here.

I breathe the nicotine in deep, the early morning sun bearing down on my face as the front door opens and she walks outside.

Her hair is damp around her shoulders, and even though she’s showered, all that covers her is one of my button-downs, the swamping size making her seem smaller. More vulnerable.

She smiles, subtle and somehow timid. Like she’s shy despite the wicked things she’s done to my body and the sinful things I’ve done to hers.

“Hey,” she murmurs.

I jerk my chin in greeting and take another drag.

She continues toward me, walking up to me. Into me.

Her arms wrap around my waist, her chest pressing against mine, her gentle curves somehow softening my hard edges.

Fuck she feels good. Smells good. Looks good.

I slink a loose arm around her back, casual and uncommitted, my slow retreat from idiocy already in full swing.

She rests her cheek to my shoulder and stares toward the dirt road leading to the house. “You shouldn’t smoke.”

I exhale the toxins high above her head. “You worried it’s going to kill me, belladonna?”

“No. You should quit because I won’t like the taste.”

I tense. God knows why.

I’ve never come close to kissing her. Not physically anyway. Mentally is a different story. But her mouth won’t get a chance to be on mine after I tell her what today brings.

Regardless, I find myself snuffing the cigarette against the porch railing like a chump and dumping it in the ashtray at my feet.

“We need to talk.” I lean away, giving her the hint to do the same.

“Can I say something first?” She retreats a step, her arms falling to her sides. “I know this means nothing to you.” She waves a hand between us. “And that’s fine. I just…” She frowns. “I really wanted to say…”

Shit.

I wipe a rough hand over my mouth, unsure how to stop whatever carnage is about to spill from her lips. “I was clear on what—”

“Bishop, please.” Those beautiful baby blues meet mine. “This is hard for me. I’ve never had anyone care about my safety before. Not me as a person. Only as an asset. And I just want you to know that I appreciate—”

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