Page 14

FOURTEEN

BANE

The afternoon sun filters through the curtains, casting soft, golden light across Moira’s skin where she lies on my bed. Her wrists are still bound to the headboard, her body humming with defiance even in stillness. She is a study in contradictions—soft yet unbreakable, restrained yet entirely untamed.

My pen rests against the pages of my sermon, the ink flowing easier than it has in weeks. There is clarity in domination, in the simple purity of control. And yet, Moira?—

Moira is an anomaly.

She watches me now, dark green eyes flicking toward mine before darting away. There is no pretense with her. No coy games. Everything about her is raw and unfiltered.

And that, more than anything, is why I can’t stay away.

She isn’t like the women from my past. I’ve known too many who smiled at me with hungry eyes but cared nothing for the man beneath the wealth and power. They wanted the Blackwolf name, fortune, and proximity to power. My cruelty turned them on only because it meant access.

But Moira? Moira fights me at every turn, not because she wants to push me into playing some role but because she doesn’t know how to be anything other than herself.

She isn’t pretending.

The weight of that realization settles over me as I rise from my chair and cross the room. “Thirsty?”

Her lips part slightly, a betraying movement, but her jaw clenches before she nods. She wants to resist even this. The simplest act of care.

I retrieve the water and press the glass to her lips. She hesitates for a beat too long, then drinks, her graceful throat working as she swallows. My free hand ghosts over her jawline, my thumb grazing the heated skin just beneath her ear. She stiffens but doesn’t pull away.

She’s learning.

I set the glass aside. “More?”

She exhales, shifting slightly, the leather of the chastity belt creaking as she moves. Her flush deepens. “No.”

I tilt my head. “No, Sir.”

Her nostrils flare, her pride rebelling, but she knows what I’m asking of her. Knows, and for the first time since I bound her wrists, she doesn’t fight it. Her voice is barely above a whisper. “No, Sir.”

Progress.

I untie her wrists, watching the way she stretches and the small wince as circulation returns to her hands. I take them in mine, rubbing slow, soothing circles over the faint red marks. She doesn’t pull away.

That trust—so slight, so fragile—claws at my chest.

“Come.” I extend a hand.

She takes it.

I lead her to the bathroom, watching as the stubborn line of her spine stiffens when she realizes the chastity belt is still in place.

“Do you need help?”

She shoots me a glare so full of fire that my cock twitches in response. “No.”

I smirk but say nothing, stepping back to let her have her space.

The door clicks shut. I lean against the frame, waiting. Listening. The sound of the sink running. The rustle of fabric.

When she emerges, she looks composed but wary. That blush still lingers high on her cheekbones, and I want to taste it.

“Better?”

She huffs, brushing past me, but there’s no real bite in it. A part of her is beginning to settle into this. Into me.

She climbs onto the bed, lifting her wrists in silent acceptance as I tie them once more to the headboard. She exhales slowly and then meets my gaze.

“You’re learning,” I murmur, tightening the silk.

“Learning to hate you,” she mutters, but there’s no venom in it. Only heat . Only need .

I chuckle, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “Like I told you earlier, hate me all you like, Moira. It won’t change the fact that you’re still here.”

She swallows hard, something flickering behind her eyes that she doesn’t yet understand. That’s fine. She’ll learn.

Her stomach growls, breaking the silence. She freezes, eyes wide, but I only smile.

“Hungry?”

“I’m fine,” she says quickly, but I see the hesitation, the way her body betrays her even now.

“You need to eat.” I rise, heading to the kitchen. “Stay.”

She grumbles under her breath but doesn’t argue.

I take my time preparing something simple—grilled chicken, fresh greens, a slice of lightly buttered bread. When I return, she watches me warily as I set the tray down beside her.

“Lunch.”

She eyes it, pride warring with hunger. I pick up a forkful of salad and hold it out. “Open.”

Her lips press into a thin line, but her body decides for her. She opens her mouth, taking the bite and chewing slowly. I watch her, cataloging every shift and every subtle flicker of emotion.

“Good girl.”

She glares, but there’s color in her cheeks. My cock, already half-hard from watching her defiance give way to need, stiffens fully.

“Don’t patronize me,” she snaps.

“I’m not.” Another bite. Another moment where she lets me take care of her. “I’m feeding you.”

“I don’t need?—”

“Of course you don’t.” I smirk. “But you’re getting it anyway.”

She huffs but keeps eating. The fight in her never fully dies, but it softens at the edges, dulled by a full stomach. And by something else she isn’t ready to name yet.

By the time the tray is empty, she looks almost… content.

I set it aside and meet her gaze. The air between us hums, quieter now, less combative. Charged in a different way.

“Thank you,” she murmurs, barely above a whisper.

I don’t know if she realizes how much that single concession means.

“You’re welcome.”

As her eyes slide away from mine, I feel it again, the warring ache, satisfaction, and need in my chest at having her so near.

She’s here .

And she’s more than even my dark, little, obsessive heart could ever dream she could be.