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I know Bishop.
I’ve known him for many years.
And he’snota good guy.
He’s the type of man your mother warns you about when you’re young. The boogie man who comes into your home and steals everything until you’re left with nothing. Only, Bishop comes into your life, stripping you down, until you’re left with a shell of the woman you used to be.
Sometimes people sell their souls to the devil.
And Bishop owns many souls.
He travels the world. He’s into export/imports, or something like that.
Gabriel’s dark eyes roam over me, thinking, contemplating, and I can see the exact moment he makes a snap decision to trust me. “Ok, nevermind, Jonas,” he says to the same man standing at his side.
I release an audible breath, trying my best to paint on a fake smile. “Thank you.”
“I have to talk to that man over there,” Gabriel tells me, pointing to a bald man across the room. “Think you can stay out of trouble?” He winks.
I square my shoulders, thrusting my nose into the air. “Of course, I can. I’ll just keep admiring this painting.” I jab a thumb over my shoulder at the painting behind me.
He leans in. “Thank you.” And then he kisses my lips, taking my breath away.
I turn back around to face the painting, staring at the softer pink strokes of paint on the canvas. I wonder why the artist even included them? The reds, blues, and greens are the true stars of this painting, but the pink strokes call to me. Like the supporting characters in a grander love story. It makes me sad for them. It makes me mourn the fact they can’t have their own story. That they can’t be in the spotlight.
I sip my champagne, and then my phone jingles in my purse. I pull it out and glance down at a text message from Ronin.
My eyes swiftly scan the party, making sure Gabriel is still across the room with the man he said he needed to talk to.
I swipe my phone on, and open up the text message.
Just three little words are written there, “You’re in danger.”
Chapter 20
Married To My Enemy Book Two
Gabriel
Fuck.
I want to leave this art gallery with my dignity intact.
Have you ever had your strings pulled like you’re a marionette puppet? My grandfather is my very own built in marionettist. A master puppeteer, pulling at my strings with my upcoming nuptials, moving me along in a manipulated dance where I assume the position of the jolly idiot while I picture my grandfather laughing maniacally.
I have good days, and I have some bad. Today is one of those bad ones. The only good comes from the woman pretending to be in love with me while we charm the designer pants off all the elite socialites of this city.
Was she pretending in the limo on the ride over?
Was she playing the part of my doting fiancee when she moaned out my name?
Was I pretending?
That is one question I know the answer to.
I wasn’t.
I wanted her to come all over my hand. I wanted to keep kissing her all night long as I slid my cock deep inside her pussy.
