Page 159 of Bishop

He cups my cheeks and places a chaste kiss to my nose. “You’re going to let me handle Geppet because I—”

“Stop—”

“Belladonna.” He gives me a pointed stare. “I’ll follow your rules. Torture within your guidelines.”

“I don’t want him tortured at all.”

“Then the two of us will just have a friendly chat.” He shrugs but it’s totally unconvincing. “My point is, you don’t need to do this on your own.”

I’m melting for him. One big, fat puddle of exposure. Dammit, he works me better than I’ve worked any man.

“I said I’d think about it.” I rake my teeth over my bottom lip, unsure if I’m still lying.

“Okay.” He gives a final stroke of my cheek and steps back. “I’ll let you get dressed.”

He leaves me staring after him, heart in my throat, soul tragically raw.

I quickly tug on a pair of loose jeans from the stockpile my brother provided, pull a cotton T-shirt over my head, and finish off the look with my usual scarf, then reunite with the others in the dining room.

The three of them are already eating their burgers and fries at the table, my food waiting at the place setting beside Bishop, a glass of wine next to my plate.

I take my seat as suspicion rears its ugly head.

Nobody else is drinking. Not alcohol anyway.

“I thought it might help you relax,” Bishop says as if reading my mind.

“Thanks.” I ignore the paranoia building like a threatening storm cloud. “I’m not sure I’m in the mood, though.”

He shrugs and throws a French fry in his mouth, unfazed. Or at least acting that way.

But I’m not convinced he hasn’t spiked my drink. It’s not like he hasn’t done it before to get his own way.

I unwrap my burger, the bun soggy with mayonnaise and sauce, the scent delicious. “I appreciate you two driving to get this.” I force a smile on Layla.

“And I’d appreciate Bishop keeping his dick in his pants,” my brother mutters. “So let’s play nice for this one night while we’re all stuck under the same roof, okay?”

Bishop’s gleam of a smile brightens my periphery. I swear the man doesn’t show any sign of happiness unless he’s taunting someone.

“Now you want to play nice?” he asks around a bite of food. “I recall walking in on the two of you, not so long ago, on the dining table of the house we were sharing.”

Layla’s cheeks darken as Matthew scowls.

“And if memory serves,” Bishop continues, “clothes were optional but apparently the use of knives weren’t.”

I glance between them. “You lost me at the knives part.”

Layla lowers her gaze to her food, feigning intent interest on her fries.

“Are you done?” Matthew asks.

“Are you?” Bishop counters. “Because as much as I originally enjoyed the whole protective brother act, it’s getting old, fast.”

“Do you want to know one thing that won’t get the opportunity to grow old, fast, if he keeps running his mouth?” Matthew sneers.

Bishop laughs.

I clench my stomach against how good it sounds. “Maybe we should change the subject.”

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