Page 64 of Bishop

I grab her hand, turn it palm up, then place the ice to her wrist.

She gasps, the cold a clear shock to her system. But not enough to stop those heaving breaths. She keeps panting, struggling for air, those heaving tits goddamn bait in my periphery.

“Talk to me, belladonna.” I run the ice back and forth, drips of water falling to the tile. “I’m going to help you.”

“No.” She wheezes.

“I vow it.” I get in her face as I trail the ice higher, over her forearm to her elbow. “You can trust me.”

She winces.

“I’ve got you.” I rub the ice along her bicep, across her collarbone. “Tell me what’s going on.”

The moisture glistens on her skin, forming rivulets that disappear into her cleavage.

I shouldn’t notice that either. But I fucking do. I notice everything. The softness of her body. The puckered length of her scar. The way her neck bruising has changed in color, from bright purples and pinks to duller edges tinged with browns and yellows.

Her nipples pucker beneath her chemise and I salivate like a perverted fuck.

“Deep breaths,” I demand, trailing the melting ice up her neck, along her delicate jaw.

Her eyes close. Her shoulders loosen. She sways.

“Abri. Look at me.” I shake her.

Her eyes flash open, all that deep blue sucking me in like a whirlpool.

“Don’t tap out on me, belladonna.”

She sucks in a breath, but this time it’s longer. Deeper.

“That’s it.” I glide the ice over her cheek, her chin. I’m fucking tempted to place it on her lips. Instead, I clench my teeth and trail it back down her neck, along the bruising.

I shouldn’t have let her out of my sight the night of the gala. I should’ve fucking been there.

I failed her. Her brother, too. And Lorenzo.

But I won’t fail in this. Whatever she needs, I’ll provide. I’ll get the fucking job done until Langston is back on his feet to take over.

She takes another long breath in between gulps for oxygen. Five fast, one deep. Four fast, one deep. Three fast…

The ice is working.

“I’ll get more.” I reach for the freezer.

“No, don’t.” Her hand latches around my wrist. “I’ll be okay.” She’s still panting, but I believe her.

I continue to slide the last vestiges of the ice over her shoulder, back down her arm.

I listen to those breaths, my own panic dissipating as her inhales continue to lengthen.

“How do you know how to fix me?” she finally whispers. “To stop the anxiety attacks?”

I scowl.

I haven’t needed to delve into my past in years. And I sure as shit don’t do story time. But as she stares at me, skin moistened, soul shaken, I find my own weaknesses clawing their way out of the graves I’ve dug them.

My nightmares want to dance with hers.

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