by Eva Ashwood
Eventually, my brain and my indignation caught up to me, and before he could move on to my underwear drawer, I stood up, pushing him out of the way.
“What the hell are you doing?” I asked, snapping as loud as I dared to; it wasn’t like Mom was sleeping on the other side of the house anymore.
He shrugged, nudging me easily out of the way.
“Seeing what my newest acquisition is all about,” he said simply.
Irritation flared. “I’m surprised you even know what the word acquisition means.”
He looked over his shoulder at me. Brow up. Smirk at the corner of his lips. I bet he could've gotten whatever girls he wanted if he wasn’t such a blatant asshole.
“You obviously don’t. Acquisitions aren’t usually so... mouthy.”
“You’re not funny.”
“I’ve been told I’m very funny, actually.”
I scoffed. “Why are you here, Bishop? I’ll scream, or—”
“Or what? Not like anyone around here would call the cops. I dunno if you noticed, but they don’t exactly patrol here.”
That silenced me. He nodded over to my bed.
“Sit.”
I gritted my teeth but complied nonetheless, plopping down on my bed. He eyed me as I did, and I suddenly became very aware that the only thing I had on was my nightgown—a short, thin little slip. I grabbed a pillow and held it in front of me, wrapping my arms around it and shielding myself from him. His smirk deepened.
“Didn’t peg you for a shy girl, given all that skin you’ve shown the last two days.”
“Why are you here, Bishop?” I asked again, dodging his question and its implication.
“Morbid curiosity.” He went back to rifling through my drawers.
“Sure you’re not here for some… panty raid or whatever it is you inner city boys do?”
“Oh, trust me, Princess, rich boys are a lot nastier than the inner city ones. We’re a lot more forward with what we want from someone, for starters.”
As if that’s a good thing, I thought skeptically. Still, I couldn’t help but think of Barrett King, and as I did, Bishop’s words rang true. Something about Barrett had made me uneasy, although on the surface, he’d acted like a complete gentleman.
“Seriously.” I sat up straighter, tightening my grip on my pillow. “Why are you here?”
He was quiet, continuing to go through my things like he was searching for something. Honestly, I was pretty sure he just liked riling me up, stringing me along, not giving me answers when I demanded them. Just as my patience started to properly wear out, he turned.
“I’m here to make sure you understand your position. And what we’re going to get out of you in our little arrangement. I don’t like repeating myself.”
I grit my teeth.
“Say what you need to say then.”
He shrugged and leaned against the dresser, resting his elbows on top of it as he gazed at me with watchful eyes.
“How much do you know about this area?” he asked. “Did you even know about this place before you were forced to start slummin’ with us peons?”
Peons. Another word I was surprised he knew. I kept that to myself.
“No,” I answered honestly. “I’d never even been on this side of the city.”
“Figures. Didn’t think you would have.” He leveled a hard look at me. “Lot of people around here have been fucked over by your father—”
“So everyone and their damn mother keeps telling me.”
“You don’t believe it.”
“Why would I?” I scoffed, shaking my head. “I know my father is a man who gets what he wants. But that’s just because he’s good at business. He wouldn’t… he wouldn’t…”
“He wouldn’t ruin people’s lives if it meant he’d get what he wanted?” Bishop finished. “He wouldn’t use people’s ignorance about the law, or their desperation for what sounded like a good deal at the time, to make serious bank despite not even needing it? I hate to break it to you, Princess, but your father is all that shit and more, and the sooner you accept that, the sooner you can accept that what we’re offering you is the best chance you have at surviving until someone decides if they want to let your daddy walk free or if he’ll spend real, hard time in the clink.”
I swallowed. Bishop spoke with such fierce certainty, it was hard not to believe him. But I had to remind myself that just because he thought he knew the truth, it didn’t mean he was right.
“Why do you hate him so much?” I asked, deflecting. “You keep going on and on about other people getting screwed over. But no one cares about other people that much. Not even saints are that selfless, and I have a feeling you’re no saint. You can’t stand there pretending you’re some humanitarian or something, standing up for the good of the people. You don’t hate my dad because of what you think he did to the neighborhood or to other people. You hate him because you think he wronged you personally somehow.”
This was personal. Way more personal than Bishop wanted me to believe. It was the only explanation that made any kind of sense.
His hazel eyes flashed as he scoffed.
“You really think you got it all figured out, huh, Princess? Maybe you think I’m jealous of your pops because he’s got all that money and power, and I don’t? You think that’s all this is?”
He pushed off my dresser, striding over to me. I scooted back on the bed as he neared, but I couldn’t move fast enough to keep distance between us. He leaned down, bracing himself over me, his hands on either side of my hips as he looked me in the eye.
It was strange, how one person could fill an entire space in just a single move, but there he was, pulling my attention to him, making me hyper-aware of everything about him. His breath made the small, wispy tendrils of my hair dance as he spoke.
“My parents are dead because of your father,” he said bluntly. “My mom got sick. She needed health care my dad couldn’t afford. But… there was a facility, public health thing. It wasn’t the best thing, but it helped. There was a treatment plan and all.” He breathed in.
“It relied on donations and volunteer doctors. People that actually wanted to help others. The donors were usually rich fucks who needed to have some pet project to make them look good, but at least it helped people.” His lips pressed together. His face was so close to mine that I could see the flecks of green and brown in his eyes. “Until your father came along. Promised all sorts of money, all sorts of support, bringing in new doctors, new tech. Except he never intended to keep the shit non-profit, and all that updated shit wasn’t gonna be provided for free. Made some dumb shit program where people had to pay in—more money you were able to spend, better your care was. But if my parents couldn’t pay for regular hospital care, how the fuck could they afford a program like that?”
“I—”
“That wasn’t an invitation for you to speak, Princess,” he interrupted. “Just making sure you understand me when I say your father is to blame. I don’t just mean the system he’s a part of—I mean him, period. He made the choices. He made the deals. He ensured only good press got out about his little operation. You get me?”
I nodded. How could I not?
“I get you.”
“Good. Anyway. Few months after that, Dad went to get my mom something to eat from the corner store. Her appetite was shit, only a few things she could really eat that stayed settled in her stomach. He took a walk down to the corner store just for a sandwich and didn’t end up coming back. Some drunk thought he’d bust in and steal some cheap beer… Dad ended up getting in between him and the store owner when he pulled an old pistol on the guy. Few months later, Mom followed Dad.” He laughed bitterly. “They still hold events at that clinic. Wellness Events, they call them. You’ll notice no one from this area ever goes there.”
My mouth was dry. Even if I thought he was lying, I knew the clinic he was talking about just by what he called the events. I’d been to a few with Dad and Mom. I’d helped coordina
te with Dad on a couple. Dad was always saying how much it had improved health care in Baltimore. There was no denying that.
But, for whom? Who had really benefitted?
“I…” I swallowed, my mouth suddenly dry. “I’m sorry.”
“What are you sorry for? You’re not your father.”
I bit my lip. “Then why are you trying to punish me?”
Bishop’s jaw twitched. He stared hard at me, as if he wasn’t sure of the answer to that himself—or maybe he knew the answer, but he wasn’t sure he liked it anymore.
My heart thudded unevenly in my chest as I gazed back at him.
The strange chemistry that always seemed to exist between us—the push and pull, the attraction and anger—flared hot and bright, filling me up with electric energy as if I’d been struck by lightning.
Suddenly, so fast I could barely track the movement, Bishop moved. He grabbed my legs and pulled, yanking me toward him, and then next thing I knew, I was on my back. His large, imposing body draped over mine, and the only thing between the two of us was my pillow.
But that small barrier was flimsy, soft… and temporary. Tugging it out of my grip, he tossed it away.
I didn’t move. I couldn’t.
He wasn’t pinning me, not the way Logan had when he’d trapped me against the wall at school—I had room to move, enough space to slip out from beneath Bishop and escape if I wanted to.
So why did I remain completely still? Why didn’t I take the way out that he’d offered me?
My breath came faster, making my chest rise and fall, almost brushing against his with every movement. Electricity buzzed through my veins, but I couldn’t tell if it was fear or something darker…
Something closer to arousal.
Then Bishop’s lips pressed hard against mine, and my eyes widened as I gasped, my entire body stiffening beneath him.
I had been kissed before, but only a few times. And never, ever like this.
Bishop kissed me like he was trying to hurt me—or maybe it was just the pain inside of him spilling out through his mouth, through the connection between our lips, infecting me too.
He kissed me like I had already given him and the other Lost Boys my answer. Like I already belonged to them.
His mouth moved against mine, his tongue tasted mine, and the weight of his body covered mine until there was nothing but him. Until the rest of the world ceased to exist, eclipsed by this dominating, cruel, broken boy.
“Why do I want to punish you? Because I can,” he breathed against my lips. “Because I want to. Because I fucking hate your father for everything he’s done to my family, and I can’t kill the bastard myself.”
My chest tightened with fear, and I opened my mouth to protest, or maybe to apologize again—but Bishop obviously didn’t want to hear either of those things, because he kissed me once more, stealing the words from between my lips.
Heat pooled in my lower belly, and I felt something hard and thick and hot as a brand pressing against my stomach as he rested his weight on me. His hands were moving over me, rough and demanding, touching every inch of skin he could reach.
There was something almost desperate about his movements, as if he was at war with himself, and every touch, every kiss, was a battle lost.
He wanted this. He wanted me.
But he was trying not to.
The feeling was entirely mutual, so I kissed him back the same way, my hands roaming over his muscled back and shoulders like they couldn’t decide if they were trying to push him away or pull him closer.
I had kissed boys before, but never like this. Bishop’s lips were firm and warm, his tongue demanding as it swept my mouth, tangling with my own. I was gasping for breath in the little half-seconds when our lips broke apart, but when he angled his head and took the kiss even deeper, I stopped breathing entirely.
Our lips moved in sync, and maybe it was the lack of oxygen, or maybe it was just the sheer, overwhelming force of the boy on top of me, but I felt like the world was spinning around me.
His hands moved over every inch of my body with impunity, sliding the soft fabric of my nightgown across my flushed skin as he groped me through the thin material. When his hand moved between us, slipping under the hem of my nightgown and pushing aside my panties, I finally broke our kiss. My lips wrenched away from his as I let out a strangled sound that was half gasp, half moan.
He must’ve liked that, because instead of pulling his hand back, he delved deeper into my panties, dragging one finger along my damp slit before working circles around my clit.
My back arched off the bed, both my hands grabbing onto his forearm as a loud moan was ripped from my throat. I pressed my lips together, embarrassment and worry filling me as I realized how loud I’d been. Mom was just down the hall. I couldn’t let her wake up, couldn’t let her see me like this.
Bishop didn’t seem to give a fuck about any of that though. Ignoring my death grip on his arm, he kept moving his fingers, making my body buzz with the overload of sensations.
“Don’t close your mouth. I like to hear you moan, Princess.”
His command was spoken in a low, rough voice, but I didn’t obey. I pressed my lips together harder, sealing them shut as my entire body began to shake. What he was doing felt good—too good. It was all too much. It felt amazing, but also like the punishment he had promised somehow, like he was trying to tear me apart from the inside out.
“Please,” I whispered. “Please…”
The hazel eyes above me sharpened as Bishop pulled back a few inches to stare down at my face, his fingers still working my sensitive nub hard and fast. “Please what?”
God. He was going to make me say it. He was going to make me beg.
Maybe that was the punishment he’d wanted to inflict on me—making me admit that as much as I feared and despised him, I wanted him too.
“Please.” My voice was a strained whisper, hardly more than a breath. “Don’t stop.”
And finally, he gave me what I needed.
His gaze stayed trained on me as his tempo increased, and the sensations ricocheting through my body peaked. My fingernails dug into his back and I lifted my head to bury my face against his chest, letting the warm, solid muscles there absorb the sound of my cry.
I could hear him breathing harder as I finally started to come down from my release, my muscles unclenching, melting back onto the mattress. His woodsy scent filled my nostrils like a drug, and when he pulled away, his pupils were so dilated his eyes looked almost black.
For a moment, we just stared at each other, neither of us blinking.
As the intense burn of pleasure receded from inside me, I became acutely aware of the way Bishop’s weight rested against me, of the heat and strength of his body atop mine. We were touching everywhere, our bodies lined up from head to toe.
And then, suddenly, we weren’t.
Bishop yanked himself away from me, blinking rapidly, almost as if he was shaking off some kind of spell as he scrambled off the bed. The bulge in his pants strained against his zipper, and I shifted my gaze away from it quickly, looking back up to his face as my cheeks heated. He was staring at me with an almost shocked expression, as if he couldn’t believe what he’d just done any more than I could.
Then, without uttering another word, he strode quickly toward the window, slipped through it, and disappeared into the darkness outside.
Panting, I collapsed back onto my mattress, staring up at the ceiling. My nightgown was bunched up around my waist, my panties soaked and twisted from being shoved out of the way, and my clit was still throbbing from the aftershocks of my orgasm.
What the hell just happened?
Eleven
The next morning, my mind was a mess of confused thoughts—about Bishop, about what’d happened between us, and about something a little less ominous.
How to make oatmeal.
I occupied myself with pouring the milk, heating the pot, and letting it get warm before putti
ng in the oats. I figured if I focused entirely on that and didn’t let my mind wonder, maybe my thoughts would stop whirling. Maybe I’d realize that everything that’d happened last night had just been an insane dream brought on by my wild imagination, my intense attraction to the Lost Boys, and all the stress finally getting to me.
But I knew that wasn’t true. Last night had been real.
I didn’t just remember it—I could feel it in my body. Every single touch, every sensation Bishop had dragged out of me, every place his hands and mouth had touched my skin. I felt changed somehow, inside and out.
Marked.
Claimed.
My heart beat hard against my ribs as the entire night replayed in my head for the hundredth time, and I found myself gripping the counter, my breath coming faster. He had touched me like he owned me, like he knew my body even better than I did somehow.
He had hesitated, his fingers lightly brushing over the fabric of my panties, and his hazel eyes had burned as he’d stared at me, waiting. He’d given me a moment to say no, a moment to push him away—but I hadn’t taken it.
A flush crept up my face, and I bit my lip so hard it hurt. The things he had done with his fingers, with his lips, with his sinful tongue…
“Son of a bitch!”
The acrid, bitter scent of burnt oatmeal stung my nose. I huffed, cursing again as I pulled the pot off the stove and set it aside.
Dammit. How the hell does anyone cook anything? I was having the hardest time getting anything right, and oatmeal was about as basic as cooking could get. Bitterly, I tossed out the scorched, blackened mess. This wouldn’t be a problem if I’d been taught how to cook.
Then again, who would’ve taught me? Dad, who hadn’t cooked a thing in his life, ever? Mom, who’s culinary acclaim started and stopped with ordering the kitchen staff around?