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)
“Relax,” he murmurs, his voice low and dark.
“Oh, I’m relaxed,” I chirp because nothing says “relaxed” like sounding like a deranged parakeet. “This is my relaxed face. See?”
His lips twitch. Just a little. Not quite a smile, but enough to make me feel like I’ve won something.
We sway, and it should feel weird, but it doesn’t. Not with him. There’s this magnetic pull with us, like gravity decided to take a coffee break and he’s the only thing keeping me grounded.
I glance up, expecting to see judgment in his eyes. Or anger about earlier.
Instead, I see something else entirely. Heat. Want. Maybe even a little bit of awe, like he can’t believe he’s here with me.
“You’re staring,” I whisper because, of course, I can’t just let the moment be.
“I know,” he replies, unapologetic.
Oh.
My heart does this weird stutter-step like it missed a beat and then tried to catch up all at once. I feel hot and cold and like I might either faint or burst into flames. Maybe both.
“Well, stop it,” I mutter, but there’s no heat behind the words.
He doesn’t stop. Of course, he doesn’t. Bane doesn’t do anything he doesn’t want to do. And right now, apparently, he wants to look at me like I’m the answer to his every question.
We keep moving, slow and steady, our bodies close enough that I can feel every inch of him. And trust me, there are a lot of inches to feel.
I’m not sure how long we dance. Time feels slippery like it does when we get in the zone like this. We’re in the bubble. Just me, him, and the quiet thrum of a song I’ll probably never hear the same way again.
When the music finally fades, we don’t move apart. We just stand there, breathing the same air, hearts beating in sync like we’re sharing the same rhythm.
And then he leans down, mouth near my ear, his breath warm against my skin.
“You’ve been a very naughty girl,” he whispers. His hand tightens on my waist.
“I know,” I breathe back. “But only because I was afraid you were a very bad boy. I was afraid you didn’t want to be seen in public with me.”
He pulls back just enough to look me in the eyes, and there it is again—that almost smile like I’m the only thing in the world capable of pulling it out of him.
And then he leans in like he’s going to kiss me—claim me—right here in this room full of fancy people, collar and all—
When a clearing throat suddenly interrupts us.
“Seducing a priest at my charity gala, Moira?” comes my brother’s cutting voice. “You really will stoop to any low to get my attention.”
TWENTY-FIVE
BANE
I pull back from Moira slowly, deliberately, as if Domhnall’s voice hasn’t sliced through the moment. My gaze stays locked on her flushed face, lips slightly parted, pupils blown wide with something darker, wilder and far more appealing than innocence. She looks like sin wrapped in velvet.
But the sudden tension stiffening her body isn’t because of me. It’s from him.
Her brother.
I turn my head slightly, just enough to meet his gaze over Moira’s shoulder. He stands a few paces away, rigid in his tailored suit, his eyes full of judgment. His voice might’ve been cutting, but his cold eyes are worse. They carry the weight of history and clear resentment.
Moira straightens beside me, rolling her shoulders back like she’s preparing for war.
“Domhnall,” she says sweetly, all sugar, but I know her well enough by now to hear the razorblade underneath. “I was wondering when you’d crawl out from whatever dark corner you were brooding in.”
His lips twitch, but not in amusement. No, I don’t think this man finds anything amusing when it involves his sister.
There’s clearly bad blood here. Moira told me she and her brother had a falling out, but now I’m thinking there’s much more to it than that.
His gaze flicks to me briefly, assessing, then back to her like I’m nothing more than a shadow.
“Enjoying yourself?” he asks coolly.
“Oh, immensely,” she replies, her grin widening like she’s daring him to push. She gestures between us. “You’ve met Bane? He’s my”—her eyes flick toward me before she quickly finishes—“my Dominant.”
Domhnall’s jaw tightens. His eyes drag over me, slow and deliberate, the way a predator sizes up another predator. His glare lands on my collar. “And you decided to cosplay at my charity event?”
“What? No! He’s really a—”
I step forward slightly, not enough to be overt, but enough to remind him I’m not background noise and extend my hand. “We haven’t had the pleasure.”
Domhnall’s hand shoots forward, rigid, the motion practiced and hollow. I clasp it, our grips locking in something far less polite than the gesture suggests. His palm is calloused and controlled. I feel the strength in his intent. He’s not pleased I’m here, and he wants me to know it.