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ELEVEN

MOIRA

I wake up with the kind of regret that clings like a cheap polyester dress in the middle of a Texas summer. Sticky. Unforgiving. And making me deeply, deeply question my life choices.

Oh, Moira, what have you done this time?

I groan, rolling over, and—yep, there it is. The crushing weight of last night slamming into me like a ton of bricks.

Bane is Father Blackwood. Father Blackwood is Bane.

Of course. Of freaking course. The one man I’ve actually fantasized about worshipping is technically already married to the Church. And I tried to seduce him with a black eye.

Goddamnit, the room is too bright. I wince as I pry my working eye open. And I’m too fuckin’ sober. This is all just too painful without the haze of gummies to soften the memory of me throwing myself at him like a runaway rollercoaster with no brakes.

Nope. Time to dip out like the hot mess coward I am.

I roll out of bed—correction, I roll out of his bed —and get to work. I straighten the sheets like a polite little house guest, smooth down my dress that he washed and dried like the infuriatingly thoughtful man he is, and tiptoe toward the bedroom door.

But when I try to open it, the door groans like it’s personally offended by my attempt to sneak away. I wince. Fuck you, stupid door! I try pushing harder and faster. Creeeeeeaaak . Oh, for fuck’s sake. I squeeze through the smallest opening possible and inch down the hallway, wincing every time the floorboards squeak beneath my feet.

I pass by the living room, pausing for a moment when I see a coffee table lined with upright dominos in a little maze, each perfectly spaced. Just waiting for someone to come and push the one at the end to set them all off.

I’m tempted. Very tempted to go knock over the first one.

But no. I shake my head. The front door is right there. I focus back on it, tiptoeing closer.

So close. Almost home free.

And then?—

“Leaving so soon?”

I freeze like a goddamn deer in the headlights. Like every bad decision I’ve ever made is coming back to haunt me in the form of a six-foot-something, dark-eyed, utterly unreadable priest standing by a little coffee nook, two steaming mugs on the table.

“Uh—” My brain short-circuits. Words tumble out of my mouth without pausing for breath. “I just—figured you had things to do, so I’d just get out of your hair, also, I’m so sorry for last night, I’m mortified, truly mortified, beyond mortified, if there’s a level past mortified, I’m there.”

His gaze flicks to my bruised eye.

I stammer. “Oh, yeah, that. It was just a misunderstanding. A—a mix-up. I mean, obviously, you know that, but I just —” I gesture wildly at my face like that’ll somehow erase my embarrassment. “I’m gonna go now.”

I make a break for the door.

Bane is faster.

One second he’s sitting, the next he’s towering in front of me, blocking my exit like an impenetrable wall of calm, controlled masculinity.

“Stay.” His voice is smooth. Commanding. A slow, deep vibration that sends a shiver down my spine. “Have some breakfast.”

“I don’t eat breakfast,” I say automatically.

“Coffee, then.”

I hesitate. His dark eyes pin me in place. He’s unreadable, as usual, but there’s something in his gaze that makes me feel… seen . Which is dangerous because no one ever looks at me long enough to see anything real.

But he does.

And that is a problem.

Still, I shrug, trying to play it cool. “Fine. But only coffee.”

He moves aside in a silent invitation. I step into the kitchen, past the point of no return, past the escape I should have taken while I had the chance.

The coffee smells rich, dark, and far too comforting for my current emotional state. The kitchen is neat and sparse. All masculine—just like him. He’s got creamers in multiple flavors, which seems shockingly indulgent for a man of God, but then again, nothing about him fits in a neat little box.

I take my seat at the small dining nook by the window, wrapping my hands around the warm mug like it’s an anchor. I take a sip, and fuck, it’s as delicious as it smelled.

“Tell me about yourself.”

I shift, clearing my throat. “Why do you want to know about me?”

He leans forward. “Because you’re fascinating.”

I laugh. “You clearly need more hobbies.”

“Don’t do that.” His voice is firm.

“Do what?”

“Act like you’re not worth knowing.”

His words hit deeper than they should. My throat tightens. My knee starts bouncing.

I need to say something, anything to shove the attention off of me, so my mouth does what it always does in a crisis—spits out something completely unhinged.

“I’m a sex addict. How’s that for a fact about me?”

Silence.

I squeeze my eyes shut. For fuck’s sake, Moira .

When I peek one eye open, Bane is… completely unbothered. If anything, he looks like I’ve just confirmed something he already suspected.

“Aha,” he murmurs. “You do seem to surround yourself with chaos.”

I huff, setting my coffee down and fidgeting with the mug’s handle. “Well, at least you’re observant.”

Enough with the twenty questions and all this sitting-still bullshit. I get up, eyes on the dominos in the living room again.

Bane watches me, sipping his coffee, as I meander back into the living room. His gaze is so steady, and it’s unnerving and thrilling all at the same time.

I crouch in front of the coffee table, my fingers hovering over the neat little setup. “So,” I muse, pretending like I’m totally casual. “What’s the deal with these? Do you have a YouTube channel dedicated to setting up elaborate domino chains or something? Should I be worried that you’re about to show me some Rube Goldberg contraption that actually made our coffee?”

“They’re about control.” His voice is low. Steady. He’s followed me into the living room. “About setting order to chaos.”

I hum, considering this.

“You know what’s funny about dominos?” I muse, tapping a finger against my chin. “They look so perfectly aligned, all neat and controlled, but really, they exist for one reason and one reason only.”

I grin. And before he can stop me?—

Boop.

I flick the first domino.

Bane exhales sharply through his nose as the dominos collapse in a perfect wave, the soft click-click-click of their downfall filling the space between us.

I gasp, bringing a hand to my mouth in mock horror. “Oh no,” I whisper, eyes wide. “I definitely didn’t mean to do that.”

His breath leaves him in a slow, measured exhale. He places his coffee down with the kind of restraint that suggests he’s resisting the urge to throttle me.

I grin. “Well, at least now you have something to do while we drink the rest of our coffee.”

He doesn’t move. Just watches me, long and slow, until my smirk falters slightly under the weight of his stare. Until my pulse stumbles. Until I realize I might’ve started a game I didn’t fully understand.

Then, he speaks, his voice like a low rumble of distant thunder.

“Moira.”

I swallow. “Mm-hmm?”

“You’re going to regret that. You need order in your life.”

I roll my eyes. “And you think you can give it to me?”

His gaze burns into me. “Yes.”

A slow, magnificent shiver runs down my spine.

Oh dear. I have the horrible, no good, absolutely deliciously delightful feeling that I’m about to be in trouble.

And I do so love trouble.