Page 94 of Bishop

Obviously it’s not the first time a man has regretted touching me. But somehow that reaction from Bishop stings.

I’ve never been pleasured before. Not selflessly or any other way. All I’ve ever been is a tool of pleasure for others.

What Bishop and I shared was different.

Monumental.

And it’s clear he despises the memory.

“I’m having an early night.” He shoves back in his chair, grabbing his empty plate and glass of water and heading to the sink. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

I bite my tongue, refusing to say something I can’t take back. Something angry to purge my humiliation. Or worse, something pitiful.

I hate feeling like this. Powerless. Not only toward my daughter, but toward him—the only man strong enough to resist my manipulation. And the worst part is that our moment in the bedroom hadn’t been manipulation at all. I’d been plummeting toward rock bottom and he’d caught me mid-air, saving me from impact. At least temporarily, anyway.

Now I’m falling again. Nosediving toward hysteria.

Too many emotions compete for my attention. Anger. Regret. Humiliation. Panic. Fear. All of them potent and toxic in my veins.

I want to scream at my mother. To wrap my hands around my brothers’ necks. To snort coke and drown in liquor. But when it comes to Bishop, all I want to do is simply understand.

His thoughts.

His actions.

His tightly held emotions.

I want to decipher him. To crawl behind those callous eyes and discover how he sees the world. How he sees me.

He leaves for the hall, the bathroom door closing with a definitive thud seconds later.

Goddammit.

I shove my plate away, the few bites of his homemade burger curdling in my gut. I don’t want to fight with him. On the other hand, it’s all I want to do. To taunt, yell, lash out.

He’s turned me into a tangled mess of irrational thoughts, which makes my actions equally volatile.

Before I know what I’m doing, I’m on my feet and padding after him to stand in wait outside the bathroom door.

Still, there’s no sound.

He doesn’t use the facilities. Not the shower or the toilet. There’s nothing. No movement. The silence is nerve-wracking.

“Bishop?” I ask quietly.

There’s a shift of noise. A slight rustle of fabric. But no answer.

I sigh and tap on the door. “Bishop?”

“What is it?” he snaps.

I wince. “Can we talk?”

He doesn’t answer.

“Please?” I test the handle, my heart thudding hard when I find it unlocked.

I slide the door open and there he is, hunched over the basin, shirtless, his hands clutching the vanity in a white-knuckled grip, the gun and knives usually hidden beneath his clothes now laid out before him.

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