“You sound jealous.” I tilt my head, tsking my faux displeasure.
He barks out a laugh—sharp, humorless, the kind that’s more scoff than anything else. “I don’t care who you talk to, Hale.” His eyes cut back to mine in the mirror. “But my brothers might.”
“Okay,Calloway.” I mimic his tone on his last name as I roll my eyes. I’m not worried about his idle threats.
Blood slips into his eye then, and he swears under his breath, blinking hard as he drags one hand up to wipe at it. It only makes it worse—smearing red across his skin instead of clearing it.
“Jesus Christ.” I step fully into the space next to him now. “Stop being so stubborn and let me help you.”
“I’ve got it.”
“You really don’t.”
He goes still when my fingers close around his wrist. We hold there for a beat, his eyes lifting back to mine in the mirror, something sharper sliding into his expression.
“Fuckingeverywhere,” he murmurs, voice low and edged in irritation.
“Your blood? Yeah, so sit down.”
For a second, neither of us move. Then he straightens slowly, turning just enough to face me fully before stepping back and dropping onto the narrow bench. The movement is controlled and deliberate. Like he wants to make sureIknow thatheallowed it rather than conceded.
“Relax, Bishop.” I pull a towel from the top of his bag, run it under the tap, wring it out. “No one’s watching. You can drop the act.”
When I turn back, he’s watching me with his elbows on his knees, hands loose between them.
I step between his knees. He doesn’t move back—but his hands pull in, and even that small retreat costs him something, I can tell. Not before one grazes my outer thigh, though.
His breath snags. “It’s not an act.”
“Hold still.” I press the damp towel to the cut above his brow, careful without being gentle.
He doesn’t flinch, not that I expected him to. But I feel the tension move through him anyway—not dissolving, just rerouting, finding somewhere else to live.
“Or what?” His voice has dropped.
I roll my eyes as I grab a few butterfly bandages from the small first-aid kit on the chair. “Or I make it worse.”
“Isn’t that your specialty?” he bites out. “Making things worse for everyone you get involved with?”
I meet his eyes again, this time without the mirror between us. “Is that what this is about? You trying to sabotage my relationships with your brothers?”
I press the last butterfly bandage flat against his cheekbone, smoothing the edges down with my thumb—and his jaw tightens, a muscle feathering beneath the skin just under where my fingers rest.
His hand comes up without warning, catching my wrist where it rests against his face. “Is that what you’re calling it these days? Arelationship?” A caustic laugh scrapes out of his throat. “Tell me, sweetheart, do my brothers know that you’re fucking all of themandsome random asshole?”
Surprise sinks its fangs into me, a quick, venomous strike. I pull my hand free and step back until my ass hits the sink.
It doesn’t surprise me that he’s playing this card. It’s shocks me that he’s playing it so hard… which means I can probably use this to my advantage.
Bishop’s spent so much time hating me these last few months that it’s clouded his memory. But I haven’t forgotten.
He watches me as I drop the bloody towel in the sink. My head tips to the side as I connect some dots.
“So you haven’t told Gage what you saw at the party.” Not a question. “Or in Sableine.” I let that land, then let my gaze travel down—slow, deliberate, unhurried—across his throat, his chest, the blood still drying on his forearms. “How interesting.”
The air between us pulls taut. Whatever this is, it has teeth.
He leans back slightly on the bench, head tilting a fraction, eyes narrowing like he’s rearranging pieces on a board he thought he already had figured out. “Was that your plan? Have me break my brother’s heart with the news of you and Rafe?”
