His head tips back against the door with a dull thud, eyes never leaving mine. “I don’t give a fuck about you, Bellamy Hale.”
His words hang in the air between us. I inhale, letting them brush past me like smoke that can't settle. My shoulders ease back, spine straightening without effort. The corner of my mouth twitches upward—not a smile, just the involuntary response of a body that knows its own truth.
My gaze drifts across him, cataloging details with clinical precision: the sharp line of his jaw clenched tight, the muscle jumping in his throat like something trapped beneath his skin, the way his chest barely moves as if he's holding his breath, waiting for me to crumble under the weight of his judgment.
“You’re a lot of things, Bishop Calloway,” I say softly. “But I never pegged you for a coward.”
His expression doesn’t change, but something behind it fractures. He’s in my space in two strides, close enough that the heat from his body raises goosebumps along my arms. The scent of cedar and something darker fills my lungs. My next breath makes the fabric of my dress whisper against his shirt. Static electricity crackles between us like distant lightning, making the fine hairs at my nape rise in warning.
His eyes darken to midnight, voice dropping to gravel. “You don't know what you're provoking.”
I lift my chin a fraction higher, holding his gaze until a muscle twitches in his jaw. “If you're trying to intimidate me,” Imurmur, lips barely moving, “add it to the list of things you’ve failed at today.”
A low sound slips from his throat—not quite a growl, but close enough that something deep and dormant inside me stirs, alert and not unwelcome.
His fingers thread through my damp hair, wrapping once, twice around his fist until the roots pull against my scalp. My chin lifts involuntarily, exposing the vulnerable hollow beneath my jaw.
I should knee him, slap him, knock his hands off me—instead, I stand frozen between fervent and fascination.
Still, I don’t retreat, though every rational part of me demands it.
He leans in, his mouth hovering just off mine, his words brushing my lips like a threat meant only for me.
“Careful, sweetheart,” he murmurs. “You keep pushing, and one day you’re going to find out exactly how much restraint I’m exercising.”
My pulse thrums against the thin skin of my throat where his grip exposes it. Heat blooms across my chest, up my neck, settling in my cheeks. I curve my lips—just the corners, just enough—and lean forward until his exhale warms my mouth.
“Be careful, Bishop,” I whisper, my lips nearly brushing his with each syllable. “One of these days, I might start actually doing the things you keep accusing me of.”
I step back and his fingers tug through my hair with reluctance. Then I step around him and into the hallway, leaving him standing there with nothing but his suspicion and his silence.
I can hear the shower still running. Part of me wants to stay like Gage asked—but the bigger part of me doesn’t want to go another round with Bishop. My limbs tremble slightly as I walktoward the kitchen, and I don’t know which brother it’s from: the orgasm or the confrontation?
I find a piece of paper on the island and hover over it, pen gripped too tight between my fingers.
rain check on breakfast?
—b
One clear thought settles in my mind as I set down the pen and slip out of Gage’s house: Bishop Calloway might be a problem.
For me.
The way my body responded to him terrifies me almost as much as it thrills me.
I've never met a problem I couldn't handle, but I've never wanted to surrender to one before, either.
38
GAGE
I draga T-shirt over my head and pad barefoot down the hall toward the kitchen. “Bell?”
Bishop's there instead, hip against the marble countertop, arms crossed, jaw tight. He taps a piece of paper on the countertop. “She cleared out ten minutes ago.”
I lock eyes with him. My jaw tightens, teeth grinding against the soft flesh inside my cheek until I taste copper. “What did you say to her?”
Bishop's eyes flick to his watch, the same one Ma gave him last Christmas. His shoulders square. “Ma called a meeting two hours ago.” His voice drops, all gravel. “We don't have time for this. Get your shit; let's go.”
