Page 227 of Bishop

He scrubs a rough hand over his mouth.

“Spill, Butcher.”

He glowers, his nostrils flaring. “I had the cameras installed the day after you came to D.C. I’ve watched every time you left the building. Every visitor you received. Every delivery that arrived.”

Okay, so when he said he was keeping an eye on me, what he meant was spying. Stalking. Why the hell am I not disgusted?

“The bank account Langston told you was arranged by Lorenzo is actually managed by me,” he continues. “I gave you that money. I’ve kept track of your expenses. And the laptop you’ve been using to place grocery orders sends me detailed activity reports. I get copies of your emails. I’ve taken note of every pharmacy purchase you’ve made.”

Holy hell.

“I know you haven’t purchased any pads or girlie shit in a month. And from going through the medical records your father kept in Denver, I’m well aware you’re not on the pill or any other contraception.”

“So that’s why you’re here.” I backtrack. “You waited a month—one full menstrual cycle—to see if your worst fears had become a reality?”

“No. I waited a fucking month for this shit to be covered.” He indicates his face with a wave of his hand. “So that I wouldn’t scare the ever-loving crap out of your daughter when I turned up at your door. So we could have this conversation in person. So I could look you in the eye when I said what I needed to say.”

“Your door,” I correct. “This is your home. Not mine.”

“Abri,” he warns. “Don’t get feisty with me. I haven’t seen you in weeks and God knows I still lack the restraint to keep from repeating the same mistake I made the last time we were together.”

My blood runs hot.

Stupid fucking blood.

“I’m not pregnant, Bishop. I can’t get pregnant. I made sure my father couldn’t hurt another child through me long ago.”

He frowns.

“I had an endometrial ablation.” I shake my head at the absurdity of this conversation. “I deliberately destroyed the lining of my uterus. I don’t bleed every month. That’s why I don’t need girlie shit. And although I can technically get pregnant because I still ovulate, I can assure you that hasn’t been the case. I’m not carrying your child.”

I wait for relief to cross his face.

It doesn’t come.

Instead, he looks angry. Hostile and livid. “How did you get the procedure with no money?” he asks. “Without your father knowing?”

I raise my chin, hating myself. “I blackmailed Tilly’s father into paying for it.”

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he snarls. “If Emmanuel was still alive…”

My eyes burn. My throat, too.

I sigh, no longer trying to fight the confusion. I let it wash over me. Consume me. It’s far better than the agony I suffered when wondering if he was dead.

“You should leave.” I walk for the door. “I appreciate everything you’ve done. But I’m not pregnant. You’re free to crawl back into whatever hole you came from.”

I open the door, keeping my back to him while I wait for his footsteps to follow.

And wait some more.

After agonizing seconds of silence I turn to face him, my limbs heavy, my heart hurt. “Bishop, please. I don’t know what you want from me.”

He stands taller, his shoulders tense, his jaw tightening.

“Everything,” he admits. One word. Three fierce syllables. “I want everything, Abri.”

“I told you I’m not pregnant.”

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