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Eden

“Shouldn’t we go to the police station? Won’t they want to arrest me?” I looked at Bishop, where he sat beside me.

“No. We’re going back to the house. We’ll head to the station later and you can give your statement.”

“But I shot him.” I bit my lip. “I think I killed him.”

“I fucking hope you killed him,” Bishop growled.

“Detective Flannigan witnessed everything. You acted in self-defense.” Rook said from the front of the car.

“He didn’t fire the gun.”

“He did. The bullet clipped my arm.” Deacon twisted on his seat, and grinned. “His aim wasn’t anywhere near as good as yours.”

“You’re hurt?” Bishop leaned forward. “Show me.”

“It’s nothing. Gemma has drawn more of my blood than that bullet did.” He faced forward again and tipped his head back against the seat. “I’ll probably head home today. I don’t think you need me here anymore.”

I’m not sure if I dozed off or just tuned out, but it seemed like barely any time had passed before Bishop touched my arm.

“We’re home.”

I blinked, frowning, and peered through the window at the familiar building.

“What time is it?” The sky was light, but I couldn’t see the sun.

“Almost five. Wait there.” He opened the door and climbed out and a few seconds later, the door beside me swung open. “I’ll call you later and let you know what’s going on,” he said to Rook. “Thanks for all your help, DJ.”

The man in the passenger seat waved a hand. “Always happy to cause trouble, you know that.”

“Let’s get you inside.” Before I could move, he scooped me up into his arms.

“I can walk,” I protested.

“I’m aware.” He used his foot to shut the door and turned to the house.

Tires crunched on gravel behind us as Rook drove away, while Bishop strode up the steps to the front door.

“Keys are in my right pocket. Can you reach them?”

I reached down and found the pocket on his jacket, hooked my fingers around the keys and took them out.

“Unlock the door.”

Trusting him not to drop me, I leaned forward, pushed the key into the lock and turned it. The door swung open. Bishop walked inside and kicked it shut behind him. Instead of going through to the kitchen or living room, he immediately headed upstairs, through his bedroom and into the bathroom, where he lowered me to my feet.

He slid the jacket off my shoulders and down my arms, then tossed it to one side. The pajama top I was wearing was next. When he hooked his hands into the waistband of my pants and drew them down my legs, I broke the silence.

“What are you doing?”

His fingers stroked over my cheek, then reached up to pull my hair free of the messy knot I’d left it in.

“Making sure you weren’t hurt.”

“He didn’t touch me.”

“You’ll forgive me for needing to make sure of that myself.” Taking my hand, he led me into the walk-in shower.

“I don’t need to shower for that to happen.”

“Agreed, but I can see how tense you are. The heat of the water will help you to relax.” He leaned past me and hit a button. Water cascaded over us both.

“Your clothes are getting soaked.”

“Doesn’t matter. Face the wall.”

The second his hands touched me, I sighed. There was nothing sexual about the way he was touching me, but the way his hands ran over my body as he checked for bruises and marks and his fingers kneaded the knots of tension out of my shoulders, loosened the fear still holding me in its grip.

I tipped my head back, letting the water flow over me, and closed my eyes.

When he turned me to face him, I didn’t resist. His hands stilled their movement, resting on my hips, and I forced my eyes to open so I could focus on him.

He was staring down at me, dark eyes unreadable. His hair was wet, slicked back from his forehead, and beads of water trickled down his face. Not really thinking about it, I rose on my toes and licked away the drops from his jaw.

He hissed and drew back.

“Eden.”

Lifting my arms, I looped them around his neck. “Bishop.” My voice was soft.

His mouth crashed down on mine, the hands on my waist tightening as he pulled me closer to him. I went willingly, pressing against him, and frowned when my skin met wet silk. Dropping my hands, I worked at the buttons of his shirt, struggling to pop them through the wet material.

“It’s not fair that I’m naked and you’re not.”

A smile tilted up one side of his mouth. He grasped the front of the shirt and pulled. Buttons came loose, flying across and hitting the shower screen. I dragged the now open shirt down his arms and off.

When his hands went to the belt at his waist, I froze. Warm fingers touched my face, lifting my chin until I met his watchful gaze.

“You do it,” he said softly.