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“I did,” he conceded, smiling.
“There wasn’t a whole lot of prep between now and your breaching of the Twelve’s Code.”
Bishop’s snicker escaped. “Breaching.”
“More like violated if we're going to get technical.”
Fuck, he was killing him.
“In a semi-normal setting, classes would’ve been ideal for this shit,” he went on, his anger gaining momentum.
Bishop nodded, wanting exactly that. All his inner giga-thoughts. “Classes can still be arranged. We have a six-month courtship,” he reminded.
“I remember, and I think it’s a waste of time, but I speak only for myself even while being damn sure there are no classes for men with Traps’ mindset.”
“Perhaps a safe house is necessary for my Twelve Warriors to learn how to survive these little females.”
“Says the one who already lost his balls.”
“No-no-no-no,” he lightly corrected with a shit-eating grin. “Grew a new pair.”
“A new pair, huh?”
“Oui, an entirely separate pair. My moss-colored steel ones are still there.”
“Hiding for their lives?”
“Waiting their turn,” Bishop assured around a fresh round of guffaws. “Trust me, Mon Frier, you will understand one day.”
“Right. Trust the one who sold The Twelve into sex slavery.”
Bishop lost it. “Sex slavery!” His phone buzzed and he looked. “Gotta go, my Belle Eveque’s calling.”
“Ah. Saved by theBelle,” he muttered. “Later.”
****
Nitro jolted awake, kicking and swinging his way out of the tangle of covers while the echo of bat screams clawed his eardrums. He stood, winded in the middle of a dark room, looking around. His head spun as he recognized the bed. Felix. Relief flooded him.
When had he gotten there? How long was he out? The questions hit his muscles and jacked him up with adrenalin. First step for the door and he faceplanted with a loudboom.“Fucking…” He made his way onto his hands and knees, feeling like a million angry ants chewed on his skin. Not ants. Fucking bats. Every part of him ached down to his bones.
Where was Felix? What time was it? He angled his head at the window. The light filtering through the sage green curtains said it was either early or late or overcast. He tried to remember where the sun set at her place as black screaming birds made sporadic flash appearances in his mind along with those Drysdale fucks. And the Noctambule.
Crawling his way to the bed, he pulled himself back on it and sat, exhausted. Lesion had come. Or had he dreamed it? He reached behind his ear and discovered an oily substance on his skin. Not a dream. He focused on remembering what he’d told him. Something about the bats and him making some kind of concoction to help him with the birds. Help how?
He angled his head at the sound of voices and searched for his phone, ready to get answers. His top seven men were there he remembered, and that fact filled him with alarm. Could have been standard safety protocol or it could have been they learned something that required it.
He got ready to stand, needing those answers. First Felix. Then the rest. No, second his fucking bladder before it burst.
He made it out of the room and swayed at the top of the stairs, listening to the ebb and flow of distant mumbles. Bracing his hands on the stair walls, he made his way to his ass when his muscles decided they were already done. “Fuck,” he whispered, panting and sweating. He tried to make out the number of voices and the gender. One was female but was it Felix? He maneuvered his way down the stairs, mostly on his rear end. At the bottom, he listened again, hearing only bird fuss now.
“Anybody there?” he called out, his words barely carrying past the racket. A minute later, he pulled himself up and aimed for the bathroom, desperate to relieve himself. Once inside, he meandered his way to the toilet and used the wall before him for support.
“Aaaagh fuck,” he gasped, every muscle in his body back to trembling as his bladder emptied slower than he needed.
Once done, he stepped left and grabbed hold of the sink, lifting his head to the mirror. Fuck, he exhausted. From the bites? Loss of blood? Some reaction to Lesion’s concoction?
He needed his fucking phone.
