Page 85 of Bishop

I turn to stone, not sure what to do now that he’s giving me exactly what I need—comfort. Compassion.

He’s doing something I’m sure he despises. Holding me against him, even though his body is as tightly coiled with unease as mine.

Why? Why would anyone, let alone him—a murderer, a man committed to a cold existence—console me like this?

My mouth turns to ash, my throat clogged with emotion.

I sink into him, my cheek to his shoulder, my nose to his neck, but my arms remain at my sides, awkward and dismissive as a lifetime of mistakes batters me from the inside out.

I don’t know what to do. How to fight my surging emotions. How to ease my suffering. I’m just as foreign to this type of contact as he is. I’ve never been held. Never been afforded the luxury of breaking down.

My throat threatens to close over, the searing tightness of my airway making it harder to breathe.

I didn’t realize how much it hurts to be this vulnerable. To allow myself to be at the mercy of his judgment. The frailty wraps its thorny vines around me, squeezing, wringing the remaining strength from my limbs. And Bishop is right there to hold me up against the onslaught.

I suck in a shuddering breath. It only makes him hug me closer.

He swaddles me with silent assurance, chasing away the sorrow even though I’m aware the reprieve is temporary.

“Thank you,” I murmur in fractured tones.

I don’t know what else to say as the first tear spills free, its heated trail cascading down my cheek.

I haven’t cried in years. Not since I watched my daughter being taken away before I could hold her. Soothe her cries. Fill her tiny belly.

A sob escapes.

I bury my head in Bishop’s neck, my ragged breaths against his skin, my fingers creeping up between us to cling to his jacket.

I know he’d prefer to be anywhere but here. Doing anything else as long as it doesn’t involve holding me. And still, I can’t stop myself from being a burden.

After a lifetime of emotional isolation, I’m a slave to his arms. To the gentle way he comforts me. I’m too weak to let go.

“You’ll be okay,” he murmurs into my hair.

More heavy tears fall, the moisture landing on his shoulder to dampen the material.

“You’re going to get through this.”

I shake my head. “I don’t know how. I’m not used to being like this. The panic attacks—” I hiccup. “The tears. I don’t cry, Bishop.”

“I know.” He remains steady against me. An unwavering force. “It’s temporary. There’s no avoiding rock bottom after what you’ve been through. You’ll bounce back once this blows over.”

I close my eyes, sending another wave of moisture down my cheeks. “What if I break instead?”

“I won’t let that happen.”

The tears come harder, the ragged breaths exhaled into a man who shouldn’t have all the right words. But that’s the way they feel—right. Real. True. How can he be such a brutal, murderous force one minute, then a considerate shelter from the storm the next?

It’s not normal. Not natural.

He’s everything I need him to be exactly when I need it. First with Gordon. Then with my attacks. Now this.

“You keep saving me,” I whisper against his neck.

“It’s my job to look after you.”

I sniff away the tears and scrunch my nose, fighting like the devil to regain some semblance of composure as I pull back to meet his gaze. “I bet you’re sick of that job.”

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