Page 33 of Bad Bishop
And there was something else.
Every time he looked at me, I had a feeling he was seeing past the charade. My lies. The pink puffy gowns and vacant stares.
The only edge I had over other people were my secrets. And his cold, assessing eyes told me he could pry every last one of them out of me without lifting a finger.
We hadn’t communicated since the morning in the honeymoon suite. I didn’t know whether our silence was a good or a bad thing. I just knew I didn’t regret devouring his blood. I wanted him to know I was no pushover, and I wanted proof he was mortal, after all.
He was. His blood was warm and thick and rich. It lingered in my mouth like warm toffee.
Despite my family owning most of the city, I’d only been to New York City a handful of times. Even then, I only ventured into the upscale parts of Manhattan. The Bronx was different. I crushed my nose to the window like a kid, watching the dense urban landscape flash by through a cloud of my owncondensation. The buildings, streets, and people deteriorated in shape and condition the farther we drove into the neighborhood, until all I could see were littered sidewalks, dilapidated buildings, and drug addicts.
The Mercedes stopped at a red light, and a woman slammed herself against my window, making me jerk back with a gasp. I snapped my head to Tiernan. He rolled down the automatic window, not sparing me a glance.
I looked back at the woman.
“Callaghan, tell McGee to hook me up. You know I’m good for it.” She slung a scabby arm along the windowsill. Her skin was heavily punctuated by purple marks.
I turned back to my husband, who sprawled his arm over my headrest, his forearm almost grazing my ear.
“You haven’t beengood for itin two months, Stella. I’m not fucking JPMorgan. I don’t offer an overdraft plan.”
My gaze fluctuated between them.
“Who’s the princess?” She jerked her chin to me.
He didn’t answer. Just stared at her. Was he ashamed of me?
She puckered her lips in a whistle. “Looks classy.”
He threw me a detached look, like he forgot I was even there. His lips were flattened into a grim line. “Anything else?”
“Look, I’ll take shifts at The Pink Kitty again.” She bristled.
Tiernan smirked darkly. “Nobody wants to fuck you in your state.”
“There’s always a client for a warm pussy.”
“I only employ clean whores. Ones who pee into cups every week. That’s why the police let me run this neighborhood.”
“Then what do you suggest I do?” she sputtered.
“Drop dead,” he said crisply. “It’s the humane option.”
“Give me something to overdose on, and I will.”
“Flattered you’d think I have a shred of humanity.” He rolled the window back up. I didn’t understand their conversation. I pinned him with a questioning glare.
“A prostitute,” he explained.
My jaw slacked. I’d never met one before.
One of the most astonishing things about my husband was that he didn’t treat me like I was an idiot. An inconvenience, yes. A pain in the ass, certainly. But he looked me in the eye when he spoke to me and explained things unfiltered.
“She has sex with people for money,” he clarified. “Sometimes for drugs.”
I swallowed down a bitter lump of sympathy, turning my head back to the window. I felt his body quaking beside me with a quiet laugh.
We stopped in front of a tavern called Fermanagh’s. An ancient castle spurted between decayed ruins, almost comically beautiful against the bleakness it was surrounded with. It was obviously a cathedral turned into a pub. Boasting French Gothic architecture, rib vaults, and stained-glass windows. My heart picked up speed. This was where I’d live? The upstairs of a pub?
