He looks well, with no signs of anguish or lack of eating. He does appear exhausted, though.
The almost black stubble around his strong jawline is longer, along with the front pieces of his hair that overlap the sides. His skin is more tan, and his vibe still put off. But then his arctic blues suddenly latch onto my browns, openly staring without a care in the world, forging my cheeks to immediately flush at his open-ended stare.
It’s intense, scary, and utterly breathtaking to be soaked in by Kace Bishop and his shitty ass attitude.
“What the fuck, Bish?” I finally chide, finding my voice and watching him pull out a cigarette and light it between his lips. “You couldn’t leave the light on?”
Well, something has him fucked up because I’ve learned over the years that he’s not a casual smoker by nature.
He’s a stressed-out one.
“You gonna drop the gun, Princess?” His tone drips sarcasm and disgust, picking on the nickname that drives me fucking nuts, and he knows that. It’s not the name he used to softly call me when I believed he felt something more for me than my wet pussy after a few drinks.
I lower my weapon and watch him watch me stand here looking lost in my own hotel room.
Like always.
I’ve been addicted to him in a way that doesn’t make sense, but it’s there nonetheless. No matter how many self-help blogs I’ve read or magazine articles at the doctor’s office, I can’t get Bishop out of my head so I can comply with reason.
There’s zero.
I’m a dumbass.
“You forgot your dog,” I deadpan.
“No, shit.”
I push my cheek with the tip of my tongue, ready to aim this gun again and shave some of that chip off his shoulder. Also, to keep my temper in check.
“I’m happy to know that he still listens on command and didn’t kill himself.”
I scoff. “Yeah, you should be. If the poor thing would have, you’d have a bullet in your head for animal abuse.”
Bishop takes another hit of his nicotine, letting silence fill the air between us as he allows his eyes to flick over me leisurely again.
It makes me feel hella self-conscious and small when he does it. Most of the time, when he sees me in his sights, he cuts into the other direction or grunts at me like an animal.
It’s super flattering.
“How’ve you been?” I press, filling in the need for words. I’ve never enjoyed the stillness of a room without something in the background playing, sounding, or running. Silence makes me anxious and fidgety.
“Fine.” He leans forward, the chair underneath him complaining and creaking under his weight. Bishop appears bigger than before, but I know it’s because I haven’t seen him in what feels like almost an eternity.
Absolutely pitiful.
“Marty got married.”
He knows that moron.
“So I heard.”
Another upsurge of ear-piercing silence, and I’m starting to wince under Bishop’s gaze.
The lack of conversation and how I don’t know how to approach him because he’s not a normal man makes me anxious.
I can help Marty all day, fully aware of when he’s reached his limit and patience with me. But Bishop never allowed me to get close to him like that. That wall he has built, no amount of dynamite or sledgehammers will ever get that baby to fall over or crumble.
“What are you doing here, Emmy?” His tone is sharp and disconnected, soaking up the oxygen in this room when it’s mine and very much needed.
“He’s sitting in between your thighs, isn’t he?”
He perks a brow. “You came here just to bring my dog back?”
“Are you surprised? He does belong to you, right?” He cocks his head slowly to the side like I just spoke a foreign language.
I guess caring would be one for him.
He shows none. I don’t believe I’ve ever seen him hug anyone, and smiling is very limited and far in between off his lips these days.
“Sounds like you’re meddling again.” He spits the last word out like it’s foul and sour in his mouth, but he answered the question, so…here we are.
I clear my throat, shoving away the lump that is beginning to form. “You’re welcome. Kyson will be here tomorrow.”
Bishop slowly rises then, and my chin follows his height as Armageddon remains where he is. “To help, I’m assuming.”
It’s not a question but a fact.
He’s not so far up his own ass to know that his second family, B723, would want to help if Bishop was having trouble.
But if he is, I have no clue. Kyson didn’t and wouldn’t say anything about it.
“More than likely.” I cross my arms along my chest, and I’m glad that I do. Because Bishop moves forward, and every stride in my direction makes my heartbeat triple time. Goosebumps lick at my warmed flesh the closer he gets. His scent, nutmeg, and leather mixed with smoke fill my senses, and my knees begin to shake.
I am a trained assassin, not a teenage girl with acne, and a diary to write my sorrows in. Get a grip.
“You’re an observant little thing, aren’t you, Emmy Lou?” The warmth of his voice, no matter how shitty he’s about to get with me, sends the butterflies in my stomach scattering and knocking into each other. “If my lack of response to your text messages didn’t give it away, you found a way to come anyway.” He stops when his chest is only but a tiny gap between us, seizing my full and utter attention. “Go home.”
Rounding my body, he dismisses me without a care and begins for the door issuing out hier to my furry buddy.
Come in Russian.
He’s leaving.
My coming here means nothing to him, and neither do I. No matter how many times I’ve thought about him doing this to me, it still hurts.
“Blieb,” I snap, clearly out of my damn mind.
Stay.
Armageddon listens—holy shit—and sits back down at my side, pending his next order.
I can feel the swelter of Bishop’s glare at
