Page 224 of Bishop

Oh, God. Did he threaten the staff? Am I going to be kicked out of the building?

Bishop shoots me a glance over his shoulder. “Don’t panic. I know the guy.”

I release a relieved breath, the respite only lasting a second before more confusion floods my brain.

After weeks of Layla arriving like clockwork, it’s safe to say she knows the concierge too, but not once has she been allowed access without my daily approval.

“Have you been here before?” I trail after him. “Matthew said he found this place through a realtor friend, but I didn’t have the mental capacity to ask questions when we first arrived.”

“Langston has friends?” He places his coffee at the end of the table and grasps the back of a chair instead of taking a seat. “That’s news to me.”

I ignore his attempt at humor, the hairs on my nape rising.

Not only did he slay the coffee machine, Bishop hasn’t even taken in his surroundings since he arrived. There was no awe at the view. No pause as he attempted to gain his bearings. Even now, he doesn’t look around as if the penthouse interior is foreign.

Instead, he stands at the head of the table as if he owns it.

“Have you been here before?” I repeat.

He sighs. “What’s with the interrogation, belladonna?”

What’s with the deflection?

“You’re hiding something from me.” I scrutinize him. “I don’t like it.”

He holds my gaze, his expression unreadable as he falls quiet.

Each second of silence makes my pulse pound harder. Louder.

“Yes, I’ve been here before,” he states simply.

My throat tightens, the clogs in my brain moving faster. Puzzle pieces I didn’t realize were out of place start to show themselves, huge holes being carved into the memories of the past few weeks. “Did you organize for us to stay here?”

That would explain my brother’s awkward refusal to accept my gratitude over our new home. But that would mean the two of them have spoken. That they’ve communicated over the last month, even back during those excruciatingly painful first days when worry left me breathless.

Bishop leans over to reclaim his coffee and takes a gulp.

“Answer me.” I step closer.

“Yes, I arranged it,” he admits. “I wanted you somewhere safe, and this building has the best security.”

The blood drains from my face. My brother lied to me. Was Layla in on it, too?

All this time they’ve been in contact, and not once did they ease my concerns.

Fucking bastards.

I turn on my heel and stalk back to the kitchen, dumping the contents of my mug to the sink in a subtle childish tantrum.

How could they have done this to me? Left me in the dark when all I wanted was to know Bishop was all right. That he was alive. That he didn’t despise me.

His footsteps carry forward as I scowl at the mug in the sink, my anger rising.

“You didn’t like the coffee?” he asks.

“I waited for you to call,” I whisper, loathing his ignorance. “Every day, Bishop. Every night. Wondering why you didn’t want to speak to me has torn me apart. Do you have any idea how worried I’ve been?”

“It’s not that I didn’t want to speak to you. It’s that I couldn’t.”

---