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He reads me like a fucking book.

His grin disappears. “Holy shit.”

I open the door. “Thanks for the ride.”

“This isn’t over.”

I slam the door.

As far as I’m concerned, this is done.

Well, except for Bishop.

That’s only just beginning.

8

ROMAN

Everything hurts as my boots thud across the wooden deck. I punch in the code to disarm the alarm system and unlock the door.

I strip off my ruined jacket and shirt, tossing them in the fireplace to burn later.

There are about seventeen things I’d rather do right now than make this call.

Getting stabbed again makes the list.

I procrastinate a bit longer, taking a piss, then removing the bandage and checking my stitches. There’s blood on the wound.

Fuck. I probably ripped some stitches when I fucked her.

I clean the wound, then carefully dry it. The damn thing fucking hurts. I’m sure Bishop will send his doctor to look at it.

I bandage it, tape it up, then head into the small bedroom to change.

Once I’m dressed in sweatpants and a tee, I pull the burner phone from my pants pocket.

Beck’s right. I fucked up.

And Bishop needs to know.

I look at the time. It’s 4:45 a.m.

He’s going to be fucking enraged that I didn’t call him last night.

I blow out a breath and hit his number.

He answers on the second ring. “McConnell. You better have a good goddamn reason for not calling me sooner.”

Of course he’s pissed and chewing my ass out. I knew he would.

“The job’s done.”

“I’d fucking hope so. Considering you waited until the following day to tell me.”

I don’t say anything for a beat.

“But?”