Page 19

NINETEEN

BANE

The downtown coffee shop bustles with the easy lull of morning business. Machines hiss and churn, voices rise and fall, and the smell of roasted beans fills the air.

Bishop Caldwell sits across from me, sharp-eyed and patient, her hands curled around a porcelain cup. She’s a steady woman, both in faith and presence, but even she can’t quite keep the curiosity from her gaze as I chuckle and put my phone away.

“So?” she prompts, lifting a brow. “How are things? With the congregation, I mean.”

I clear my throat and take a slow sip of my black coffee. “Steady. No great changes, but no great losses either.”

She hums, watching me over the rim of her cup. “And yet you seem... distracted.”

Fuck. No more thinking about Moira’s pink little pussy that’s probably all wet and pulsing right now. I exhale through my nose, forcing myself to focus. “The budget is tighter than ever. We had to push back the repairs on the rectory roof another month. And Mrs. Pearson has, once again, taken issue with Agnes over pew placement.”

Her lips twitch in wry amusement. “As I recall, she’s been fighting that war since long before you arrived.”

“I suspect it will outlive us both.”

She chuckles, but the knowing gleam remains in her eye. “And yet still, your mind is elsewhere.”

It is. It absolutely is. Three weeks ago, I laid down the law for Moira. Set expectations and stripped her of choices that had been leading her down a path of chaos. And she?—

She’s flourished.

I roll my thumb over the lip of my coffee cup, the warm ceramic grounding me as flashes of the past weeks fill my mind. The first few days, she fought the structure I gave her, bristling, testing boundaries with a sharp tongue and restless hands. But discipline and consistency won out. By the second week, her obedience no longer felt forced. By the third, something in her settled, her edges smoothing, her wildness tempered—not extinguished, never that, but refined.

This morning, I kissed her forehead before she left for the shelter. Her first day back. A test of sorts. One I’m eager to see her pass.

“Bane?” Bishop Caldwell’s voice pulls me back.

I set my coffee down and offer her a wry smile. “You’re right. My mind does wander. A thousand apologies. It’s inexcusable. I know how valuable your time is.” I mean it sincerely. I understand she’s run ragged dealing with all the churches in the diocese. Taking time to meet with all the priests individually, in addition to coming to visit the churches, keeps her schedule full to overflowing.

She studies me with that piercing gaze of hers, the one that sees too much. “Wandering anywhere in particular?”

Yes. To a woman who kneels so sweetly now, who opens so easily under my hands. To the way her breath catches when I call her my good girl. To the promise I made her this morning—that if she behaves and doesn’t chase pleasure I haven’t given, I’ll take her to play at Carnal tonight.

“Just the usual,” I fib smoothly. It’s not exactly a lie. Being with Moira is my new normal.

She smirks, unconvinced, but lets it go. “Well, distracted or not, I do have something to discuss with you.”

I force myself to listen, to engage, but half my mind remains with Moira. I imagine her at the shelter, hands busy, mouth soft with focus. I imagine her remembering my words and my warning. I imagine the reward she’ll earn if she obeys.

I can’t wait to see if she’ll pass my test.

The bishop finally folds her hands around her tea, fingers delicate but firm, and regards me with a quiet intensity.

“You know I’m not just your bishop,” she says, voice measured. “I’m meant to be a shepherd to you.”

The weight of her gaze feels too heavy for the light monthly check-in I expected today’s meeting to be.

I nod, offering nothing in return. Silence has always been my refuge, safest when words might betray too much.

She takes a slow sip from her cup before setting it down with precise care. “It has been reported to me,” she continues, each word deliberate, “that you have been seen taking walks with a woman. A woman who follows you into your house.”

The words land like a stone thrown in a pond, disturbing my calm. A muscle in my jaw twitches, but otherwise, I force myself to remain still, my hands flat against the table.

Of course, people talk. Of course, even here, where I’ve worked to build something new, the past is never entirely out of reach. As the son of my father, gossip and gossip rags used to be my constant nuisance.

The bishop watches me carefully. “You understand, of course, that your heart is not yours alone.” Her gaze becomes more pointed. “Nor is your house. You are living on parish property, and people… gossip.”

I stare at her, my fingers tightening imperceptibly. Gossip. The great currency of communities, small and large. And I know well enough that whispers can turn into a sharp weapon if a man isn’t careful.

She pauses. Takes a calculated sip of tea. Then, her voice drops just slightly. “And I took a risk on you.”

That lands. A direct hit.

I swallow hard.

“You were not the obvious choice for this parish,” she continues. “Your past raised concerns. But I saw something in you. A man seeking redemption.”

My fingers curl into fists beneath the table. I force them to relax. “I appreciate that, Bishop. Truly.”

“Do you?” she asks, her gaze sharp. “Because I have to wonder.”

The air feels thick, pressing against my ribs.

The past. The unspoken thing always lurking between the lines. A past I can’t undo, no matter how many good deeds I accumulate.

Her expression hardens. “Is it serious with this girl?”

Another punch to the gut. It’s the first time the thought has been presented so bluntly.

Serious . The word reverberates.

The second time I met Moira, I promised her she wasn’t alone anymore.

I should have an answer to this question. The last few weeks have just been so… good. Great. Stunning, really. Giving into the dominant bastard inside me… training Moira… satisfying both our demons while also reaching into the realms of heaven with our pleasure and connection?—

I should be able to answer this fucking question.

But instead, my mind blanks.

Is it serious?

Moira’s laugh, sharp and untamed, plays in my head. The way she moves through my house like she belongs there. Her presence fills spaces I didn’t know were empty. The warmth in my chest when she brushes against me in passing. The way my body tightens when she looks at me with that knowing, unafraid gaze.

I’ve never been a man who lives with an eye toward the future. Maybe it’s why I was never caught in the allure of my father’s money. I live in the now, and in the now , I knew Moira and I were good for one another. So I never stopped to question tomorrow or next week or next year.

It’s a failing, I realize, if I’m truly to be a good dom.

Because I don’t know what this is between me and Moira.

I don’t know if I can call it serious because I don’t even know if I have the right to hold it in my hands.

But I know it’s something. Something that pulls at me, that makes my blood run hot and my prayers falter.

The silence stretches too long. I swallow, my voice low, when it finally comes. “It’s new.”

The bishop’s expression doesn’t change, but the sharpness in her gaze deepens. “Well, figure it out.” Her words are steely, as is her gaze. “And I’m sure you understand that sleepovers are inappropriate on church property.”

A fresh wave of heat rushes through me. Not shame. Not guilt. Just anger.

She doesn’t understand what this is. She can’t. And yet, she has the power to destroy it before I even know what to call it. Not to mention, we aren’t in the twentieth century anymore. The church has evolved. It’s infuriating that we’re still supposed to live by puritanical nonsense just because some elderly women in the congregation like to gossip. It’s not what we preach but it’s still a standard we’re held by?

Still, I manage to nod once. “I understand.”

Bishop Caldwell watches me like she’s trying to peel me open and figure out what’s ticking underneath. Maybe she is. Maybe she always is.

“Good.” A long pause. Then, a slow exhale, like she’s letting something go. “I heard you’ve been spending time at the correctional facility again.”

I shrug. “A few times a week.”

She gives a knowing hum, fingers steepling. “They need someone willing to see them. To remind them they aren’t lost causes.”

“They’re not.” My voice is steel. “They don’t get visitors. They don’t get forgiveness. They don’t even get a phone call from the outside. Most of them got thrown away long before they ever ended up behind bars. The least I can do is show up.”

Her lips press together, thoughtful. Then, “It’s good work. Just don’t neglect the ones who sit in your pews every Sunday, the ones looking to you for guidance.”

I roll my shoulders, letting the tension settle. “I’m aware.”

She studies me another beat, then nods. “And Advent preparations?”

I lean back in my chair. “The choir’s rehearsing, the volunteers will handle the decorating after Sunday’s service, and I’ve got midnight Mass lined up.”

She hums. “And the food drive?”

“It’s happening,” I confirm. “But I’m expanding it. A lot of the guys inside have families barely scraping by. I want to make sure they get something too: care packages, food, supplies, whatever they need to get through the season.”

Bishop Caldwell leans back. “Good. The church should serve more than just those who walk through its doors.”

I nod once. “Agreed.”

“Then I suggest you stay focused on the work. And don’t get waylaid by… distractions .”

She watches me carefully, as if waiting for me to falter, as if she expects some further admission. But I give her none.

The conversation shifts back to logistics and schedules, but the weight of her words lingers.

Long after I leave the cafe, long after I walk the familiar streets back to my home, her voice echoes in my mind.

I took a risk on you.

Figure it out.

Your heart is not yours alone.