Pictures of us driving, walking down the streets in various parts of town, eating at restaurants.
Our entire lives.
Everything we’ve done and everywhere we’ve been…
And they go back far longer than I’ve known Gage.
I step farther in on shaky legs, my hand tensing around the handle of the screwdriver.
What the hell is this?
A low table sits cluttered with all sorts of mechanical parts, and as I start to take in what they are, my heart stops, then starts thundering rapidly against my ribcage.
Blood rushes in my ears.
My legs start to give out, and I grab the edge of the table to keep from passing out on the floor.
Blinking rapidly, I try to clear away what I’m seeing…
No.
It can’t be…
“Bishop?”
Gage’s voice carries through the open door, and I freeze.
Shit.
His booted footsteps sound on the metal stairs as he slowly ascends, then they pound back down when he realizes I’m not up there.
There’s no way to sneak out of here and get that door relocked and closed before he sees me, and there’d be no point in attempting to hide it. I can’t ever look at him again without him knowing what I’ve seen.
I tighten my grip on the only weapon available to me and wait for him to appear in the doorway.
He does almost immediately, his eyes wild and wide, his jaw set hard. His gaze locks on me, trepidation darkening the usually warm waters there. “It isn’t what it looks like, Hellcat.”
“Don’t call me that.”
My rage bleeds through my words, making them come out colder than I’ve ever heard my own voice.
He holds up his hands. “Let me explain.”
“There’s no explanation for this, Gage. None. Especially this.” I motion toward the items on the table, and he flinches and squeezes his eyes closed. “I’m no expert, but I know enough to recognize what I’m looking at. This stuff you have here? These are the components for making a fucking bomb.”
His eyes fly open and meet mine, and there’s a plea in them—one I absolutely cannot fall for.
Not ever again.
“Did you?—”
I swallow back the words because I can’t even form them.
I can’t possibly say them out loud because that would make them true.
It would make everything I thought I knew about this man into the biggest lie of my life.
“Did you make the bomb that hurt my uncles? That hurt me? Did you try to kill us?”
