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)
“Don’t touch me!”
I freeze, hands raised in surrender, though every instinct in me screams to gather her up in my arms to protect her from the cold and whatever’s making her cry so hard.
“Shhh,” I murmur. “Moira, what happened? Are you okay? Are you hurt?”
“No!” Her voice fractures on the word. She throws her hands up, just visible in the dim light filtering through tree branches from a streetlight. “Of course, I’m not okay! Have you met me? I’m fucked up! Fucking screwed up in here!”
She punctuates the words with sharp knocks against her own temple with her fist.
“Stop it.” My voice is firm. The command slips out before I can soften it. “You’re perfect.”
She laughs—a bitter sound. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. You’ve only seen what I let you see.”
“Fine. What don’t you want me to see?”
“This!” She screeches, spinning in a frantic circle, then jumping in place. “Fucking this! The fucking ants under my skin. The itch I can’t scratch. I almost—” She flings an arm back toward the church. “I almost lured one of your church guys to the parking lot out back behind the church to fuck me just to stop the noise in my head!”
I absorb this information and nod, trying to keep my face non-judgmental. “Okay. Thank you for telling me that.”
“Thank you for—” Her face twists, incredulous. “What’s wrong with you? Did you hear what I just said? That’s fucked up! I’m fucked up!”
She’s luminous like this. So fragile and furious. So unfiltered. She thinks her ugly truths will make me recoil.
She couldn’t be further from the truth. Doesn’t she get it? Every time she’s so vulnerable with her rawest emotions—with her soul—she only makes me want her more.
She’s the opposite of the perfect bullshit pretender I am.
I step closer, slow and steady, like I’m approaching a wild animal. She could run if she wanted. She doesn’t.
“I don’t think you’re broken,” I whisper, closing the space between us. I finally wrap my arms around her, gentle but firm. She stiffens but doesn’t push me away. “I think you’re so, so brave.”
She stares at me, her eyes glassy and lips trembling. Finally, she manages a whispered, “Nobody thinks I’m brave.”
I squeeze her tighter to me as if that will make her believe my words. “Then nobody’s been paying attention. You live fearlessly. And you’re brutally honest. No one’s as brave as you, Moira.”
Her breath shudders out, and for a moment, she lets herself sag against me.
“I’m not brave,” she whispers. “I’m just crazy.”
I smile softly, pressing a kiss to her temple. “All the bravest people were called crazy first, dove. The prophets. Saints. Revolutionaries. They were the only ones brave enough to stand up against kings and dictators.”
She snorts. “Pretty sure none of them were trying to fuck randos in church parking lots.”
I chuckle, the sound rumbling through both of us. “Who knows? Maybe they just edited that part out of the scriptures and history books.”
Her fingers spasm on the fabric of my shirt and she blinks up at me. “But those are the best parts.”
I chuckle. “If only they’d had Kindles back then. The scribes were probably writing all the dirty parts on any leftover scraps of paper.”
I finally manage to get a small smile out of her, which sobers me.
I tilt her chin up, forcing her to meet my eyes. “What are you really doing out here, gorgeous?”
She swallows, her gaze flickering away. “I’m not good enough for you.”
Her words slug me in the guts.
She hiccups in a big breath, eyes landing somewhere around my Adam’s apple.
I shake my head, but she goes on.
“I mean, look at you in there. Being so holy and leading those people to like, God and stuff. And then I’m so bad and dirty—”
I stop her the only way I can. I dip down and kiss her, cutting her words off. My hands slide up the sides of her body until I’m cupping the back of her precious head when I finally pull away.
“That’s nonsense,” I say, pressing another gentle kiss. A line from all that useless Shakespear I learned in school suddenly returns to me: Thus from my lips, by thine, my sin is purged.
“Don’t you understand, love? You’re not the sinner here, and I’m not the saint. You’ve got it backward.”
She just shakes her head, looking confused.
“Come with me,” I whisper suddenly. I drop my hands down and thread my fingers through hers.
Because I can’t stand another second without her, and I need her to understand what I see so clearly.
THIRTY-TWO
MOIRA
“What are we doing?” I ask as Bane pulls me back into the church, his hand wrapped around mine like it belongs there.
The heavy doors shut behind us, sealing us inside the warmth and shutting out the cold. The church air feels different now that we’re all alone.