Page 222 of Bishop

She slinks behind my legs, hiding.

She reacted the same way with Layla and Matthew the first few times they visited even though we’d spent the previous days together. She still does with Remy and Salvatore when they call to video chat, wanting to form their own long-distance bond with their niece while they set up their new lives on the East Coast with Lorenzo.

“You don’t need to be shy, sweetheart.” I reach behind me, gently brushing her arm. “Bishop’s a good guy.”

He winces, this big, merciless man crestfallen by the rejection of a child. “It’s okay. She doesn’t have to take it.”

She scampers away without a response, her pattered footsteps crossing the room behind me, the clatter of plastic blocks announcing she’s gone back to play.

He pushes to his feet. “I should go.”

“Why?” I ask too quickly. With too much need.

“Because I hate scaring her. The memory of how she looked at me that night still fucking kills me. And I’m sure your days are difficult enough without—”

“She’s shy, Bishop.” I glance behind me, finding my daughter back on the rug, content as she concentrates on what blocks to pile on top of her tower. “If she was scared, she’d be hiding in her room.” I open the door wider, letting him see for himself. “Instead, she’s playing.”

He steps closer, his gaze seeking her out as the scent of his aftershave assaults my senses in intoxicating hints of citrus and sandalwood.

I fight the urge to close my eyes and breathe him deep but notice he doesn’t smell the same. There’s no longer a smoky undertone. He’s lost the underlying tinge of tobacco.

“You don’t smell like cigarettes,” I whisper.

His gaze remains on Tilly. “You told me to quit.”

I blink through the bewilderment. I don’t understand what he’s doing here. What the impromptu visit means. Why he brought Tilly a gift. What drove him to end a habit just because I asked.

I know what I want it to mean, but that’s not what this is.

Not when he left me in the dark for weeks.

“How are things with you and Lorenzo?” I change the subject before my heart fixates on unrealistic daydreams. “Are the two of you talking again?”

“Not really. He calls. I answer.”

“And then?”

“He questions how I’m doing and I respond by asking if Adena is still alive, and when he confirms the bad news, I hang up.”

I wince. “I’m sorry she hurt you the way she did. That she almost killed you.”

“I’m not. The alternative would’ve been worse. If you or Tilly had been shot…” His jaw ticks. “I wouldn’t have appreciated that.”

I give a half-hearted chuckle at his understated concern. “I’m told she’s practically living in her own private prison.”

“She is. The only freedom she’s tasted since that night was when the news of your father’s death broke. She was under strict guard while making the necessary public statements.”

My brows knit. “You were a part of her security team?”

“No. I was watching.” He turns to me, those brilliant blue eyes holding me captive. “I’ve kept tabs on you both.”

My body shivers under his attention.

I want to reach out. To touch him. To cup his cheek. To trail my fingers over his scar. I want to hold him. Be held by him. But…

“Why did you disappear?” I whisper.

He looks away, staring blankly over my shoulder. “You want to do this now?”

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