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)
Respectful boundaries and shit.
I tilt my head in the mirror, testing angles. “I’m so fucking respectful.”
I try a pouty face. Bad idea. My lip is swollen, too. Fucking perfect.
Right—concealer. I need concealer.
I yank the sunglasses off and stomp toward the cosmetics aisle. Should’ve grabbed a basket.
EIGHT
BANE
I’m at my usual perch, watching from the shadows and feeling more foolish than usual.
How long am I going to keep this up? Yes, we had one night of connection. And yes, she came to my church pleading for something—salvation or absolution, maybe. But the dazzling siren who commands every room she walks into doesn’t look like she needs saving. She looks untouchable. Unstoppable.
Unlike me.
Oh, I go through the motions: my rigid priest’s routine, my careful sermons, my daily devotions. But the truth? I’m having what the kind-hearted might call a crisis of faith. I don’t doubt God. I only doubt that He ever truly called me.
Did I turn to the priesthood to atone, or was it just another form of selfishness? Another way to wrest control over the urges that have ruled me since I was old enough to name them? Because if I was ever truly in this life to serve others…
Then why can’t I let go of her?
She haunts me. Possesses me. Consumes my thoughts with a fervor no prayer could ever match.
I’ve stopped dressing it up. Why lie to myself? There’s nothing noble about this. There is no higher calling behind my actions.
There’s only obsession.
I’m as twisted as I ever was.
The drizzle starts, soaking through my collar as I keep up my usual vigil across the street from the club. But still, she doesn’t come.
I clench my jaw, already cursing myself for a fool and telling myself that this is it. The last night. I’ll leave this place behind. I’ll let her go.
Then, a car pulls up.
She steps out.
And my whole body locks with tension.
Something’s wrong.
She stumbles, barely catching herself as the driver steadies her. Moira never stumbles. I’ve watched her for weeks; she’s a force of nature, striding through life with fiery confidence. But tonight, she’s moving like something inside her is broken.
My hands curl into fists inside my coat.
Don’t move. Don’t interfere. Whatever’s wrong in her life, you’ll only make it worse. My obsession is meant to be my own curse.
She disappears inside the doors of the club, and my breath releases.
But she’s barely inside ten minutes before she storms back out.
Limping.
Quinn follows, eyes narrowed, mouth set in a hard line. They argue. Moira shouts something sharp, and Quinn lifts her hands in surrender before shoving back inside, leaving Moira alone on the street.
And the moment she’s alone, she absolutely collapses in on herself.
Even though she’s still standing, I see her broken before me again—lost, trembling, pleading.
Lightning splits the sky.
I failed her once.
I won’t fail her again.
Before I’ve even made the decision, I’m moving. Already slipping my mask from my pocket and tying it into place across my face. Already crossing the street.
Her tears have mixed with the rain by the time I reach her, but I don’t miss her sharp inhale when she lifts her gaze and sees me.
“You!”
“Me.”
She blinks, water clinging to her lashes, her chest rising and falling too fast. I see the moment she registers me. The way her expression wobbles, just for a second, before she forces herself into something sharp, something brittle.
And then I see the bruise blooming across her eye.
My stomach twists.
Who?
I’ll fucking tear them apart.
I will find them. And I will end them.
But first—
She’s shivering. Uncontrollably.
“Come with me.” My voice is lower than I mean for it to be, but she doesn’t hesitate.
She nods, eyes wide, and reaches out a hand like she’s a child seeking comfort.
Her trust destroys me.
I take her hand. The moment our skin touches, a shudder runs through her, and I don’t know if it’s the cold or—
No. She’s freezing. That’s all it is.
After only a few steps, I see again how badly she’s limping.
What the hell am I thinking? Dammit. I can’t make her walk three blocks like this. She’s just an elf of a woman, anyway.
Without a word, I scoop her up into my arms.
Her gasp is soft, startled, but her arms loop around my neck like she belongs there.
My gut tightens.
I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing, but I keep striding forward, carrying her down the familiar path I’ve walked over and over these past few weeks, as if each step wasn’t a step toward damnation.
She doesn’t say a word, and neither do I.
Not until we’re almost at the church.
Her voice is quiet but not weak. Never weak. “Are you real, or am I imagining you?”
I should ignore her. I should let the silence stretch between us. I should remember that this moment—her body curled against mine, her trust so freely given—is an illusion.