Page 56 of Bishop

I’d known he’d dosed my drink last night, and it had been a struggle to decide whether or not to take it. But having him dictate rules had felt different to when my father did it.

I’d needed sleep. Bishop was pushing me toward what was right.

That insight had never been clear to me with my father.

Now I feel all the better for what must have been more than ten hours rest. Exhaustion doesn’t have me by the throat. Today will be the day I pull this shitshow together and take charge, no matter how impossible that seems.

My stomach turns at the thought and I clench my muscles, refusing to let dread bubble back to the surface.

Breathe. Focus.

I reach for my cell on the bedside table and pause as my fingers brush the device, struck with a sudden wave of hazy déjà vu.

Did Bishop come into my room last night?

Did he stand over me in the darkness?

I wouldn’t be surprised if he did. But I must have dreamt it.

I snatch my cell, my attention skimming past the 8:25 time in the top corner of the screen before I focus on the notifications.

Two missed calls from Salvatore.

One text from Remy—

Remy

I know you’re with Bishop, but at least tell me you’re all right.

I swipe away the notices, allowing another to jump into view—a Google alert with a link to a news website.

Since our family fashion label became an international success, I’ve had notifications set to inform me of online articles that could affect the running of the business. In more recent years, I’ve set those alerts for my targets as well. The men I’ve extorted and those they hold dear. This morning, Gordon Myers’ name is in the short preview.

I click the link, my blood running cold at the headline—Shipping Magnate Attacked by Home Intruder.

I skim the article, all the blood draining from my face.

Masked assailant.

Strangled with belt.

Survived but remains in hospital.

Police are also investigating the death of his bodyguard, Graham Finch, found dead in his apartment from a suspected suicide.

My heart changes gears from the calm of slumber to something panic-riddled as clattering pans and clinking cutlery carry into my room.

Bishop.

I scowl, forcing my thoughts back to last night. The hot chocolate. The steep dive into slumber. Then him. In my dreams. Standing over my bed.

I faintly recall his face through the darkness. His quiet murmured words that still held such strong conviction. By the time you wake, the man who hurt you will be dead.

“Shit.”

I fling back the covers and slide from the bed, then pad to the door and yank it open. I’m wearing nothing but my satin chemise and I don’t care. I don’t care about anything except answers until I reach the open living area and stop dead in my tracks.

Bishop stares down at a sizzling pan on the stove, dressed in a black business suit, his back to me as he holds a pair of tongs.

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