Page 154 of Bishop

He reaches out, grabbing a handful of the towel at my waist to drag me closer, right between his parted knees. “Yes. We’re not going to argue about Geppet again.”

“Good. I’m glad.”

“You’re going to let me handle it. I’ll—”

“Bishop—”

“We’re not arguing, belladonna.” He peers up at me with something akin to desperation. “I promised you wouldn’t be used like that again and I meant it. Don’t make me into a liar.”

“I don’t need to use my body to get the information.”

“Then how will you get it?”

Good question.

“What is his incentive to forsake Adena?” he asks. “You have no money. No power.”

“I’ve known him for years—”

“He’s not going to do you any favors, Abri.” His large hands cup my hips. “He’ll want something in return.”

I stare down at him, appreciating his concern when it isn’t smothered in dictatorship. I like this almost vulnerable side of him. Maybe a little too much. But still, this is my battle—my fight. “I’ll figure it out.”

“No. I will.”

I sigh. “Let’s not discuss it then.”

“We have to. Time’s running out.”

His time—not mine. I’m not the one who has to catch a jet tomorrow.

I break eye contact, watching through the window as the last vestiges of the sun’s rays disappear from the sky. “This is a funny way to apologize for your behavior today.”

He bows his head, his forehead falling to my stomach. “I won’t apologize for protecting you.”

My fingers itch to run through his hair, to cradle his face to my body. “What about hurting me? You’ve said some horrible things.”

“Sometimes the truth hurts.”

I attempt to take a step back but he clings to me, not letting me move.

“You want your daughter, belladonna. My guess is that you think you don’t deserve her.”

I fight harder to escape, pushing at his shoulders, jabbing. “Let me go.”

He shoves to his feet, bringing us hip to hip. He remains calm, desperation continuing to peer back at me from those hypnotic blue eyes. “I’m not fighting with you.”

“Good, then get your grabby hands off my towel.”

He tugs me against him, the hardness of his erection throbbing through the layers of material between us. “I will if you promise to drop it to the floor.”

Butterflies take flight in my belly like a mass of startled birds.

“Let the towel drop,” he repeats.

I straighten my shoulders and drag the towel from around my neck, letting it fall to the floor.

He huffs a barely audible laugh. “I guess I should’ve been more specific.” He raises a hand to my neck, his fingertips lightly grazing my scar before he palms my throat in a gesture so light it’s barely a touch at all. “I like that you reserve your pain for me. That I get to see you without restriction when no one else does.”

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