Page 53 of Bishop

“The names, Abri.”

“Only one was responsible.” She crosses her arms over her chest. “And his nickname is all I have.”

Adrenaline seeps into my veins. “Give it to me.”

“What will happen if I do?”

“He’ll get what he deserves.”

She sits straighter. “Will you tell me before you take action?”

I push my plate away, my appetite vanishing with the build of bloodlust. “If that’s what you need.”

“It is.” She nods. “I want to know what you plan on doing and when you plan on doing it.”

“Then give me the name, belladonna, and I promise to keep you updated.”

She raises a brow. “You’re promising me?”

“Yes. You’ll know before I take action.”

Her eyes narrow, her scrutiny intense for a few short seconds before she unlocks her arms from around her chest and stands. “Gordon called him Finch. That’s all I know.”

11

BISHOP

She enters the kitchen, scrapes her food in the bin, then fills the sink with water. She does the dishes while I finish my meal alone.

I don’t stand and follow until I hear the coffee machine, the slow gurgle of a new brew dripping to life.

“No more coffee.” I stalk toward her, dumping my plate on the counter before reaching around her to switch off the machine.

She stiffens and turns to face me as my arm grazes her waist.

“You need sleep.” I ignore her wild eyes, her parted lips, the scent of her floral shampoo. “Go and get ready for an early night.” I return to my plate and shove the chicken bones in the trash as I wait for her to protest. To lash out with words or claws.

Neither happen.

She simply stands there, staring at my profile as if too battered to fight.

“You heard me.” I dunk my plate into the bubbled water in the sink and give it a once-over with a dish cloth. “I can’t sleep unless you do, and I’ll be one nasty motherfucker tomorrow if I’m kept awake again.”

“Coffee or not, I won’t be able to sleep,” she murmurs.

“Maybe not, but you’ll have even less chance with more caffeine in your system.”

“But I have calls—”

“They can wait until morning.” I shoot her a hard look over my shoulder, almost regretting my severity when she peers back at me with crestfallen defeat.

This woman isn’t the same one who flung me from the hotel bed. She’s not the one who drove me into the viper’s den and covered my unconscious ass with a picnic blanket either.

This Abri Costa is brimming with hopelessness, like she’s subconsciously screaming for help. She’s weak. Pathetic. And I hate how I itch to save her.

“Go.” I jerk my chin at her and return my attention to the bubble water.

I don’t expect her to silently leave the room like she does. To shower without protest.

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