Page 223 of Salvatore

Bishop’s lips quirk as he grabs the bed remote, inclining my mattress. The insidious expression escalates into a chuckle that morphs into a cackle, then outright hysterics. He’s laughing his ass off by the time I’m finally sitting upright, then reaches inside his jacket and retrieves a money clip.

“Here.” He hands two twenties to the boy and jerks his head toward the door. “Good work, my man. Now scram.”

The boy’s eyes alight as he snatches the cash and runs for the hall. “Bye, mister.”

What in the fuck?

My brain is too sluggish to comprehend where the hell my kid is going or why the fuck my brothers aren’t here.

And Ivy?

I need Ivy.

“You should see your face.” Bishop snickers. “That’s the funniest shit I’ve ever seen.”

“Are you fucking with me?” I croak, my throat too sore to yell. “Was that my kid or not?”

“Of course it’s not your fucking kid. Do I look six years older, moron?”

The parental-induced panic subsides as I glare at him. Livid. Homicidal. “Excuse me for not having the mental fucking capacity to read the room seconds after waking from unconsciousness.”

“The kid also had blue eyes, brainiac.” He chuckles. “How do you think you and Ivy could’ve thrown those baby blues?”

I grate my molars, the ache of my body fading under the strain in my locked jaw. “Again,” I growl. “That thought didn’t cross my mind while I was spiraling in parental panic, motherfucker. How long have I been out?”

“Three days.”

“Three days?” I repeat.

Three days and this fucker has somehow already been deemed my custodian?

I raise a hand, staring at the bruises on my arm and fingers riddled in shades of blue and purple.

Bishop cringes. “If you think your arm looks bad, you should see your face. Your whole aesthetic is kinda fucked up, which is a shame, because it’s not like you have a personality to fall back on.”

I swear to God, if I had the strength…

“Why are you here?” I snarl.

It would make more sense if I was alone—left to rot.

He strides for the door and glances into the hall. “You literally picked the only time in the last three days where this room hasn’t been filled with your siblings psychotically watching you sleep. They all went to the cafeteria to get a bite to eat.”

He saidsiblings. Not Ivy.

Did she run? Or worse, was she hurt?

I don’t want to ask. The physical pain is bad enough. But I can’t stop the question from clawing its way out of my mouth. “What about Ivy? Where is?—”

“She’s with them.”

“Is she okay?”

“She’s fine?—”

“And the baby?”

“Jesus Christ, what’s with the inquisition? Do I look like a fucking oracle?” He strolls back toward me, brows pinched. “Look, I don’t typically tend to ask women about the functionality of their uterus at the best of times, so I’m not a reliable source, but I haven’t heard any bad news if that’s any consolation.”

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