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)
But I don’t.
“Do you often imagine me?”
She hums, something wistful curling in the sound. “Sometimes.”
The word slams into me like a fist to the gut. My grip tightens around her instinctively, my body warring between smug satisfaction and something darker.
She thinks of me. Imagines me. I shouldn’t crave that knowledge, but it unfurls inside me, warm and insidious. I want to know how often. How much. In what way.
Thunder rumbles in the distance, and I shove open the gate to the parish house, the rain falling harder now, soaking through my coat.
“I’m real,” I growl.
She shivers against me, her face pressing into my chest, seeking warmth.
I move faster.
The gate swings shut behind us, and the cobblestones glisten with rain. Her breath is warm against my throat as I climb the steps of the parish house, my keys already in my free hand.
I should let her go.
I should set her down.
But I don’t.
I shoulder open the door, my grip on Moira unwavering. We step inside, dripping water across the threshold, and I shut the door quickly, cradling her tighter before carrying her straight to the bathroom.
The moment we cross into the smaller space, I reach over and twist the faucet, a rush of water filling the tub. Steam curls into the air, warming the chill between us. Only then do I realize—I’m still wearing the mask on my face.
I pull it off, and the second my face is revealed, she gasps.
Her gasp slices through the air like the snap of a whip. Her eyes widen, shock swirling with something raw.
I expect words—accusations, questions—but she gives me silence instead as she shivers in the damp glow of the bathroom light.
Shame crashes through me.
For years, I’ve fought to keep these two halves of myself separate. To lock Bane away and let Father Blackwood atone for his sins. But now, standing before this bruised and vulnerable woman, it’s so clear: I was never truly hidden.
I kneel before her, the motion both instinct and surrender.
I force my hands to stay steady as I untie her boots, the sodden laces resisting. When the first shoe finally slips free, I set it aside carefully, almost reverently.
This feels like a sacrament.
The chill of her sock seeps into my fingertips as I peel it off, her skin cold against my palm. Too cold.
A deep, unrelenting rage coils in my chest. What happened before she got to the club? Who left that bruise?
I shove it down. She doesn’t need my fury. She needs warmth. Comfort.
I gently rub her foot between my hands, coaxing heat back into her body. She gasps at the contact, her breath hitching, and my stomach tightens. Fuck. Not now. Not like this.
“In the bath,” I say, my voice rougher than intended.
I risk a glance upward, but she isn’t looking at me. Arms locked tight around herself, her gaze is fixed firmly downward as if she can hold herself together through sheer will alone.
And then, in a whisper barely audible over the running water, I hear, “You’re… Father Blackwood. But you’re… you’re Bane.”
The name cracks through the air like a whip. I flinch.
I wish there was any denial I could make. But the truth is raw and rasping in my throat. “I am,” I admit. “I’m both.”
I look away as her accusing gaze flashes up at me.
I’ve tried to smother Bane for years, to starve that hunger out of me. But, in this moment, as her eyes rake over me, I feel him resurrecting.
I take a breath and steady myself.
“You’re freezing,” I say, pushing past the wreckage of my confession. “Let’s get you warm first. The rest can wait.”
She hesitates. I reach out but stop short, hovering just above her arm. “May I?”
She nods, barely, but it’s enough.
I slip my arms beneath her knees and back, lifting her effortlessly. She’s nearly weightless in my grasp, yet the moment feels impossibly heavy.
Now she knows. Now, there’s no more pretending and stalking safely from afar.
I ease her into the bath, clothes still on, my hands steadying her as the water rises to meet her skin. She gasps at the heat, fingers brushing my wrist before she lets go.
Her shivering slows. She sinks deeper. The steam swirls between us, a fragile veil.
“You’re… a priest,” she murmurs at last, eyes shadowed with something unreadable. “But that night, you weren’t…”
The accusation cuts deep. That night, I was Bane.
I swallow hard. “That night, I wasn’t wearing the collar. But it doesn’t change what I am.”
Her lips part, but no words come. Instead, she wraps her arms around herself again. A shield and a barrier.
Something in me fractures at the sight.
“I never wanted to hurt you.” The words escape before I can stop them. “That night, and every day since, I—” I clench my jaw and swallow the rest. She doesn’t need my turmoil. She clearly has enough of her own tonight.