Page 16 of Bishop

Footsteps carry into the hall. Fast. Heavy. The guard jogs into view and slams his hand against the elevator call button.

“This is unacceptable.” Gordon casually strolls up behind him. “Emmanuel will learn I don’t appreciate surprises.”

Abri whimpers.

I clamp my palm over her mouth, leaning harder against her. “If they hear you, they’re dead. Is that what you want?”

Her eyes implore me, the deep ocean depths pleading.

The elevator arrives again as breaths heave from her nose, her body trembling against mine. I keep peering through the crack as Gordon and his guard walk inside, the doors closing a few moments later.

“You’re fucking lucky that ended the way it did.” I drop my hold from her mouth. “What the hell were you thinking going into a room alone with them?”

I’m hungry for all the secrets she’s got hidden behind that deceitful face of hers. Fucking starved. Yet she shakes her head at me.

“You have no idea what you’ve done,” she whispers.

That’s not the answer I was looking for. And I’m too fucking pissed to ask again. At least not while we’re in a public stairwell and she’s all but naked.

I let the door fall shut, then haul her back over my shoulder.

“Put me down.” She whacks my spine.

“Hit me one more time, Abri, and we’re going to have a problem.” I carry her down the stairs, thankful she’s smart enough not to test me further.

There’s nothing but her huffy breaths to keep me on the edge of rage as I descend one flight after another until we reach the thirteenth floor.

I shove the door open into the hall, trek to the room I booked this afternoon in the hopes of getting some peaceful fucking sleep for the first time in days, and retrieve the key card from my pants pocket.

Once inside, I flop her backward onto the bed, my suit jacket parting across her chest to expose a wealth of plumped cleavage beneath all that sinful red lace.

“Start talking,” I growl.

She pushes onto her elbows with a glare.

“And do it without the attitude.” I match those evil eyes, spite for spite. “I think we’re past beating around the bush, don’t you?”

She dumps her dress and clutch on the mattress and sits tall, dragging the lapels of my jacket together to cover herself. “I didn’t need your help.” She scoots to the edge of the bed. “I knew what I was getting into.”

“Oh yeah?” I raise a condemning brow. “And was that a spit roast with Father Time providing the glaze?”

“Fuck you.”

“No, thanks. I’ve got kinks of my own, but they don’t hold a candle to your daddy issues. How old was that guy anyway? Sixty? Seventy?”

She shoves to her feet, a storm of violence brewing in her eyes. “Are you done?”

Barely. I want to rail on her. To yell. To shake.

This princess of perversion could’ve done so much more with her life. And I’d know. I’ve spied on her enough over the years to understand she’s smart. Capable. Determined.

We stare for long seconds, her rigid animosity ebbing from the harsh sharpness of her shoulders until I can almost glimpse a sign of vulnerability.

Almost.

I jerk my chin at the golden material pooled on the bed. “Put your dress on.”

“I prefer your jacket.”

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