Page 183 of Bishop

“Please. He’s almost at the door.”

“Here’s the problem we have, belladonna—you are my concern. You are my focus. So until I know you are okay and not sustaining any injuries that need urgent attention, I’m not dragging my eyes away from you, let alone my hands.”

I could wither. Arms. Legs. Body. Soul.

This man makes me insane.

But he also makes me feel worthy. So unbelievably valuable.

“He slapped me,” I blurt in a rush. “Pulled my hair. Dragged me across the floor. Then kicked me in the stomach. That’s all.”

His jaw ticks but he keeps his thoughts locked tight.

“I’m sore. But that’s it. I promise. Nothing is life-threatening.”

His fingers trail to my chin, his thumb swiping my lower lip. “I’m going to kill him, belladonna.”

“I know.” Geppet can rot in hell for all I care. “But not before you get the information on Tilly. Make that asshole sing.”

He leans down and plants a kiss to my hairline. “With pleasure, my beautiful woman.” Then he turns and stalks for the man who attacked me.

I should sigh in relief, but his words cement the air in my lungs.

My woman.

My—beautiful—woman.

It says a lot about my life that here, in this moment, swollen and bruised, that I find the compliment from a notorious murderer to be the most endearing thing I’ve ever heard.

The words reach my heart, tinkering with my resilience. I tremble, my hands shaking, my legs weak.

It’s shock. Yet even with the acknowledgement, I can’t help watching with admiration as Bishop approaches Geppet with such commanding confidence it strengthens the most fragile parts of me.

“Where the hell do you think you’re going?” He hauls Geppet to his fumbling feet by the back of his shirt, dragging him into the middle of the room. “Now we do this shit my way.”

33

ABRI

Geppet swings a wild elbow. “Get off me.”

Bishop blocks the attack, then retaliates with a bone-crunching punch to the jaw.

Geppet’s head jerks back while he continues to get dragged farther into the room. “You’re going to regret this.”

“Highly doubtful.” Bishop flings him into the closest wall, catching him when he rebounds and begins to fall. “This right here is what people like to call a passion project. It’s where my shit shines.”

“Adena will have you killed. She’ll fucking slaughter you.”

“She won’t even know I touched you, my friend, because you won’t live to tell the tale.” Bishop slams him into the wall again, this time holding him upright with a forearm across his throat while his free hand reaches behind his back and beneath his suit jacket.

He retrieves something long, sharp, and shiny, the sight there and gone before Bishop slams it into Geppet’s right shoulder, the impact thudding through to the plaster.

Geppet roars, his pain ricocheting in my ears.

I stare dumbfounded by the calm callousness as Bishop steps back to admire his handiwork.

“Start talking,” he demands.

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