Total pages in book: 122
Estimated words: 120475 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 602(@200wpm)___ 482(@250wpm)___ 402(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 120475 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 602(@200wpm)___ 482(@250wpm)___ 402(@300wpm)
She used to be all jagged edges, sharp and wild and impossible to hold without getting cut. Now, she’s smoothing herself down. Filing away the parts of her I used to clutch like a lifeline.
I lean in, close enough that my breath ghosts over the shell of her ear. “You don’t have to pretend with me,” I murmur, dark and quiet, the way she used to love. “I know exactly who you are.”
She pauses. Just for a second. Just long enough for me to think I’ve cracked through. Then she exhales. Slow. Even. Like she’s past it. Like she doesn’t crave me anymore.
And that’s when I feel it—
Real fear.
Not for her. For me.
What if this isn’t just about her getting better? What if she’s outgrowing me?
I sit back, jaw tight, and watch her hand move across the page, logging things I don’t understand. Moira never used to write things down. She used to scream them out into the world.
I don’t know this version of her.
And I don’t know if she still wants me.
Hours pass in silence, and at some point, she dozes off against the window. I study her, trying to make sense of the sight. Moira asleep. Moira still. Not tossing and turning, not mumbling half-crazed thoughts in her sleep. Just… peaceful.
It unsettles me more than anything else.
I reach out before I can stop myself. A curl has slipped over her cheek, and I want—need—to tuck it behind her ear. To touch her. To make sure she’s real. But my hand stops inches from her skin. I let it hover there, suspended, before curling my fingers into a fist and pulling back.
Then, an alarm goes off.
Moira stirs and blinks, then reaches into her bag. She pulls out a bottle, dry swallows a pill, and tucks it away like it’s nothing.
I watch. I wait. I feel the words scrape up my throat before I can stop them.
“What was that?”
She arches a brow, the ghost of her old smirk dancing on her lips. “My meds.”
Silence.
“What kind of meds?”
“The kind that makes me less fun.”
I hate the way she says it. Like she’s taunting me, daring me to react. Daring me to admit I do miss the fun. The fire. The chaos.
I don’t answer. Because I don’t fucking know the answer.
She watches me, something sharp in her gaze, and then, finally, she says it:
“You don’t like me like this, do you?”
I freeze.
She exhales and shakes her head, then looks away. “Not that it matters if you like me anymore, I guess. I’m just here for paperwork.”
And that? That’s what makes me snap.
I grip the armrest between us and lean in, my voice low and razor-sharp. “You think I’m dragging you across the fucking ocean for paperwork?”
She doesn’t answer. Doesn’t blink. She just holds my gaze, so fucking steady and unshaken.
Then she shifts, stretching her legs out and rolling her neck like she’s settling into a throne instead of a seat. She lets her gaze wander the cabin—across the sleek walnut bar, the plush recliners, the gleaming brass light fixtures—and then, without looking at me, she says, “You must like having nice things now that you’re rich again.”
I don’t take the bait. Because the truth is, I don’t give a fuck about the money, the jet, the legacy. None of it means anything.
She’s the only thing I ever wanted.
And for the first time since I met Moira Blackwood, I am the one unraveling.
I stare at the woman in front of me and wonder if I ever really knew her at all.
FIFTY-NINE
MOIRA
Dear Journal,
I’m on the fanciest fucking plane I’ve ever ridden, and Bane just slipped into the seat beside me.
What do I feel???
Not gray. That’s for damn sure. All I’ve felt for weeks since I started those dumb meds is gray—fucking gray. I hate fucking gray. At least I did.
But now Bane’s back. A burst of red.
I see it in his eyes. He wants something from me.
But I’m afraid.
Fear feels like blue—the blue-black of a bruise.
I’m not an idiot. I see the lust. The want.
But what if he wants something I can’t give him anymore?
Everybody loves the bouncy, shiny girl.
The shadowed, sad girl—I’ve always tried to tuck her away.
Hide in the cabinet. Cower down. Mam’s fucking again. Hide in the cabinet. Put your sad thoughts away there, too. Just a crack of light in the cabinet-dark.
Men wanted Mam for an hour or two at a time.
Domhn had friends at school—or at least people who respected him and wanted to be like him.
No one wants you.
Bruise blue girl.
Petals plucked, one by one.
Who’s going to want you now?
Holy fuck, Bane is rich.
I mean, I knew it. I knew it in the way you know the ocean is deep or that the sun is hot. But there’s a difference between knowing and standing in the middle of a goddamn castle while some starched-up butler with an accent straight out of a period drama asks if I’d like my tea with honey or lemon.