Page 22

TWENTY-TWO

Two months later, two days before Christmas

MOIRA

Marci’s in one of her delightful moods again. Lucinda’s still out, which means janitorial duty at the shelter is all mine.

Marci practically vibrated with joy when she handed me the mop and informed me about the catastrophic backup in stall three. If she’d been any giddier, she might’ve clicked her heels.

But Marci’s petty little victories can’t touch me today. Not when I’m still floating somewhere above the clouds, carried by the aftershocks of my morning with Bane.

Things have been different since I got back from what everyone at Carnal now calls—without a hint of irony— the Red Wedding.

Isaak was in a bad situation, so we all banded together to get him out of it. Well, mostly, he did all the badassery, but we got him out of jail so he could go do his white knight shit.

It felt good.

I felt good.

And it felt even better that when Quinn called about Isaak, Bane didn’t turn all caveman on me. He let me go, and he didn’t try to control the situation or insert himself into it like some overprotective asshole marking his territory.

Yeah, we like to fight—but only during sex.

I’ve never had anything like this before. I mean, obviously. I’ve never had anything with anybody before.

But this morning, I woke up and just watched Bane sleep. Felt the warmth of his solid, muscled torso pressed against me, his heavy man-arm slung over my waist like he was afraid I’d disappear if he let go.

His face was turned slightly away, dark lashes casting delicate shadows on his sharp cheekbones. He looked almost… serene. Almost.

Because even in sleep, his mouth was tight, and a furrow was etched deep between his brows.

Like he was wrestling demons only he could see.

Not that he’ll tell me about them.

I frown as I push the wheeled mop and bucket toward the bathroom.

We have to sleep at my apartment now. Not by choice but by decree , courtesy of his bishop, who laid down the holy law after that little meeting of theirs. No sleepovers at the church-owned house.

Bane, ever the stickler for his twisted brand of honor, took it as gospel. No exceptions. No bending the rules. Not even for me.

But he’s still in my bed every night but Saturday.

Like he can’t help himself.

Like I’m gravity, and he’s cursed to fall. But not cursed enough to break all the rules. Not cursed enough to let me in all the way.

He knows everything about me but still won’t tell me shit about his past beyond the maddeningly vague I wasn’t always a priest.

He hates lies but apparently doesn’t feel the same way about secrets. Because he’s a locked box.

Always in control. Except for those rare, feral moments when he fucks me like a man possessed.

I want to know what’s really going on in that infuriating, brilliant head of his.

While he slept this morning, I mouthed words too dangerous to ever say aloud against his hair. Words I barely let my lips form: Tell me you never want me to leave.

Because what if he doesn’t?

But worse—what if he does ?

We’re not strangers anymore. But we’re not just lovers either. We’re something tangled and raw and dangerous.

Every night he crosses town to be with me, defying his own goddamn boundaries. At first, I thought this was temporary. Some fleeting indulgence on his part. But he keeps coming back, night after night, like a tide pulled by a moon neither of us is willing to acknowledge.

The more he stays, the deeper I sink.

And the more terrifying it becomes to imagine the night he doesn’t come back. When I wake up to cold sheets and nothing but a ghost where his warmth used to be.

Why did I let him in so deep in the first place?

There was probably a reason I never had relationships before. Yeah, I’m a fucking chaotic disaster. But also, this shit is terrifying.

I push into the shelter’s bathroom with my mop bucket and lean against the closed door. My palm presses flat against my chest, feeling the frantic drum of my heart.

I want him.

I want this.

But wanting is so goddamn dangerous.

Wanting means I have something to lose.

It’s just so fucking sweet right now. No, sweet isn’t the right word.

This thing between us is sharper, like dark chocolate with sea salt.

And just as fucking addictive.

Just before I left to volunteer, Bane didn’t say a word. He just guided me to sit on the edge of the bed, his palms warm against my thighs as he parted them and his gaze dark and unreadable as ever.

Then he kneeled between them like I was something sacred, something he needed to worship, and proceeded to devour me. His mouth was slow. Relentless. Devastating.

Half an hour.

That’s how long he kept me there, trembling and unraveling, his mouth merciless while my fingers clutched and pulled desperately at his hair.

His hands gripped my ass, strong and possessive, dragging me closer and anchoring me at the same time while wave after wave of pleasure fractured me into pieces. Only for him to gather them up again with his tongue for the next devastating rush.

Even now, heading toward the mess in stall three, my jelly legs still carry the ghost of that quaking, muscles weak like they’ve forgotten how to hold me upright.

I was nearly late for my shift because my body refused to cooperate, stubbornly lingering in the aftershocks of pleasure.

Bane fed me yogurt in bed afterward, casual as you please, his fingers occasionally drifting south, brushing over my overly sensitive clit with the lightest touch—just to watch me twitch.

Bastard. Sadistic, gorgeous bastard. He loves to torture me, but not without purpose. There’s an art to it with him, every flick of his fingers, every command—a calculated masterpiece of control.

But he’s also maddeningly disciplined. Once he decided I’d recovered enough, he was all business. He made sure I got dressed, packed my bag, and ushered me out the door with military precision, ensuring I left at the exact minute I needed to be on time.

Good thing, too.

I got here on time, so despite Marci’s bad mood, there wasn’t anything she could do but scowl at me and give me the keys.

Really, if I don’t let my fucking doom spirals ruin shit, my life is currently going quite fucking spectacularly.

I grin the entire time I scrub down stall three, earbuds blasting Sabrina Carpenter as if the music alone can match the pulse thrumming in my veins.

I yank my gloves off and toss them, then snap a new pair on. Hell, I’m practically dancing as I move on to stall four.

Because yeah, the messes will always be there.

But maybe so will Bane?

I push open the fourth stall, expecting the usual grime-and-regret combo, but instead?—

“Jesus!” I yelp, stumbling back a step.

There’s a woman perched on the toilet tank, knees tucked up, boots planted on the closed lid. Long brunette hair spills over the collar of an oversized Bad Bunny shirt, tight jeans tucked into scuffed combat boots.

She glances at me, completely unfazed, and blows a lazy stream of smoke out the cracked open window.

I thought I smelled something earlier, but stall three’s backup situation had been an olfactory apocalypse. Guess my nose needed a minute to recalibrate.

She rolls her eyes like I’m the inconvenience here. “Lemme guess, I’m in trouble now?”

I lean against the grimy tile wall, pressing a hand to my chest, still catching my breath. “Not from me, you’re not.” I let out a laugh, adrenaline mixing with amusement. “You must be new. Skipping Life Skills class, huh?”

“Life skills,” she snorts, taking another slow drag. “They don’t know shit about my life.”

Fair point.

I nod, crossing my arms. “So, what’s the plan, then?”

She exhales a plume of smoke, squints at me like she’s sizing me up, then shrugs and holds out the joint. Not just a cigarette. Yep, definitely a joint.

For a split second, I hesitate. But then, fuck it. I’m already in the shit with Marci, and impulse control’s never been my strong suit. I take it, inhaling deeply. The smoke burns warm in my chest, blooming like a rebellious little fire, and I blow it out the same window.

She nods like that seals something between us. “My sister’s got me covered,” she says, all bravado. Then she shrugs. “Unless her dad or my boyfriend kills me first when I get out of here.” Her head wobbles in a casual, it-is-what-it-is kind of way. “Which is probably more likely. So no real point in Life Skills class, ya know?”

She winks. Like it’s a joke.

But it doesn’t feel like one.

“Well, shit,” I mutter, the words hitching somewhere between my lungs and my heart. My instincts kick in, bulldozing over the whole maintaining healthy boundaries thing. I glance at my janitorial cart, grab a stub of a pencil and a clean square of toilet paper—it’s the industrial kind, practically laminated cardboard—and scribble my number on it.

Turning back, I hand it to her. “If you ever get in over your head—like, really over your head—call me. My brother’s got… resources.”

Resources like fists and favors and connections nobody talks about in polite company. He may not be speaking to me right now, but Anna’s got a soft spot for girls tangled up with bad guys. And I guess I do, too.

She frowns down at the makeshift note, squinting like it’s written in code. “Look, that’s real nice and all,” she says, voice dropping into something softer. “But these guys? They’re not just assholes with anger issues. We’re talking cartel-level trouble.”

Oh.

Shit.

My pulse kicks up, but my mouth moves faster. “Doesn’t matter. Help’s help.”

Then, maybe because the weed’s hit me just right, or maybe because I’m feeling stronger lately and more pissed off at guys who hurt women and get away with it now that I’ve finally found one who’s actually kind, I lean in, lowering my voice to a whisper. “Don’t tell anyone, but my family just buried the body of another bad man where no one’ll ever find it. If you catch my drift.”

Anna’s father was a monster, and the only reason I can sleep at night is because I know he’s six feet under.

Her eyes go wide, the kind of wide that says she believes me.

“Well, shit,” she says, folding the toilet paper and carefully tucking it into her pocket. “I’ll keep your number, then.”

“Moira,” I say, tapping my chest.

“Daniela.”

She offers the joint again, but I wave it off, shaking my head. “My supervisor will put my tits in a vise if she finds out I’ve been smoking on the job.”

We both dissolve into laughter, the kind that’s too loud for how unfunny the situation really is.

“Tits in a vise,” Daniela giggles, clutching her stomach like it’s the best joke she’s heard all year.

I’m wiping tears from the corners of my eyes when my phone buzzes in my pocket. It takes me a minute to fish it out—my fingers suddenly feel like bratwurst. Jesus, where did she find such good weed around here?

“Dammit,” I giggle, finally managing to get it out.

It’s a text from Bane. My fingers are still clumsy, but I click on it.

Bane: Thinking of you gorgeous.

I sigh dreamily and type,

Me: Back at you, Sexy.

Daniela squints at me, her grin slipping into something sharper. “Ugh, I know that look. Don’t fall for his bullshit, whoever he is.”

“Not all guys are bad news,” I say automatically, but my voice wobbles like a chair with one short leg.

She tips her head back against the wall, exhaling like I’m exhausting. “Oh, na?ve sweet summer child.”

I snort. “If you knew me, you’d know na?ve is the last word to use. Besides, how old are you? You look twelve.”

She scowls. “I’m twenty.”

“Well, I’m twenty-two. That makes me your wise elder.”

“Blow it out your ass,” she fires back, grinning. “My sister’s twenty-two, and she’s shit at telling good men from bad ones.”

“She knew enough to send you here when your boyfriend got violent.”

Daniela scoffs with a bitter little sound. “As if she’s one to talk.” She looks at me, her gaze sharp enough to cut. “Your man ever lay hands on you?”

I waggle my eyebrows. “Only when I want him to.”

She shakes her head, exhaling smoke. “Just wait. All men are dogs. You met his mama? Any of his friends?”

I frown.

Um. No. Not really.

Her face shifts into an I-told-you-so expression, and my heart sinks to my stomach, then down out my asshole.

“Be real,” she says, grinning now. “You’re his sneaky link.”

“I’m not.”

He’s just British. All his family lives back there. I think.

She arches a brow. “Do you even go on dates outside of his apartment?”

I open my mouth. Then close it. “Well… it’s my apartment.”

But even as I say it, something cold creeps into the pit of my stomach. Because—shit. The bishop said we couldn’t be seen together. Or was that just the most convenient story ever to keep me out of his business because fuck ? —

Am I actually his…?

Daniela bursts into laughter, doubling over like she’s heard the second funniest punchline in the world.

“You are his sneaky link and don’t even know it. He could have a whole-ass family in another state, and you’d be none the wiser.”

“No!” I protest, heat rising in my cheeks. “I’ve seen his house. There’s no secret family.”

She gives a nonchalant little, “Heh, whatever you say,” then hops down from the toilet tank. She stubs out the joint on the edge of the stainless steel trash can, pocketing the rest with the kind of casual defiance that says she’s been doing this a long time.

“Stay chill, Moira.”

“Same to you, Daniela.”

As the door clicks shut behind Daniela, the lingering haze of weed-scented air feels like it’s pressing down on me. But it’s not the smoke that’s suffocating.

Oh my god. I’m so fucking stupid. Prancing around like a fucking idiot.

Why haven’t I ever pressed to know more about Bane’s past? I mean, it’s not like I haven’t asked here and there. But he always just…

Changes the subject.

Turns the question back on me.

Offers something vague, then distracts me with sex.

I told myself it’s normal not to want to talk about the past. Mine’s not all that rosy and I’m certainly not sharing monologues about it. But he’s met my friends. And if I was on speaking terms with Domhn, I think I might’ve introduced them by now.

Still, it could be normal… right?

Fuck, what if it’s not normal? What the fuck would I know about normal, anyway?

Daniela was right. Maybe I am na?ve. A sweet summer child thinking I’ve learned from my mistakes when really I’m just dressing them up prettier this time.

Because here I still am, trusting that a good fuck equals a good man. Tumbling headfirst into something, only for it to drop out from underneath me. Leaving me falling , all right. Straight into the shit. Into trouble so bad, like last year when I broke my brother’s heart.

Fuck that .

I’m nobody’s secret.

I yank out my phone, thumbs tapping before I can think twice.

Me: You busy tonight?

The text flies off like a bullet. No time to overthink.

Bane’s reply comes quick. Too quick.

No. Why? You want me to bring pasta on my way home? You eat pasta, I eat you? I’ve still got the taste of you on my tongue.

A shiver dances down my spine, sharp and electric, pooling heat between my thighs. My knees wobble, and for a second, I almost let it go. Almost let the sweet talk smooth over the jagged edges.

But I’m Moira.

I always poke.

Because if I’ve learned anything, it’s this: when something feels too good to be true, there’s always a catch.

Me: Good, you’re free. Dress up nice and meet me here at 8:00.

I drop a pin, my thumb hovering before I add the kicker.

Me: I want to introduce you to my brother.

I hit send before I can chicken out.

Then I stare.

And wait.

The screen stays blank.

No reply. No dots. Just the harsh glow of expectation burning into my retinas.

Maybe he’s just busy, I lie to myself, heart pounding like a drumline. Maybe his phone’s dead. Maybe he’s?—

…

I suck in a breath, not realizing I’d been holding it.

Then the dots disappear.

Pop back up.

…

Disappear again.

My pulse pounds in my ears. “Answer me back, you motherfucker,” I hiss at the phone like it owes me something, frantically waving my hand through the lingering weed smoke like that’ll help.

Finally— ping .

Bane: I don’t know. I might have to be on a call with the worship committee tonight. Can we have your brother over for dinner another time?

I blink.

The worship committee?

WORSHIP COMMITTEE?

Me: Lie

My thumbs type furiously.

Me: You just said you were free.

He tries to call me, but I silence it. More fucking smooth talk isn’t going to cut it. I’m seeing red. The petty, righteous kind that demands satisfaction. My thumbs fly over the screen.

Me: I’m at work

I type, fingers hitting the keys like they personally offended me.

Me: And maybe I’m done with your secrets. Meet me tonight where I said or we’re over.

Send.

The second it flies off, regret crashes into me like a freight train.

Fuck. Did I just ultimatum him?

I did.

Fuck, fuck, fuck—I just ultimatum’d him.

Why did I do that?

I pace in frantic little circles, bouncing on my toes, phone clutched like it’s a grenade. My mind spins out:

Should I text back? Say I didn’t mean it? Play it cool?

Or grovel? Maybe grovel.

No. Fuck that!

But also, maybe yes, grovel.

Ugh, why am I like this?

“Say something!” I hiss at the phone.

But the screen stays stubbornly dark.

No dots.

Just me and my spiraling thoughts.

Minutes drag by, stretching into the unbearable. I consider typing another text—something cute, something flirty, something to undo the explosion I just caused—but the self-loathing bubbles up before I can.

Weak. Stupid. Na?ve .

I hate that voice. But it’s mine.

Finally, the phone pings .

I fumble it like a greased-up football, scrambling to unlock the screen.

Bane: Fine. We’ll discuss this tonight.

Relief crashes over me in a tidal wave, but it’s bitter, mixed with dread. I glance up, catching my reflection in the cracked mirror above the grimy sink.

Oh. Shit.

I look like a street cat that’s just lost a turf war. Hair wild, smudged eyeliner from god-knows-when, janitor gloves still dangling from my pocket like sad little flags of defeat.

And I’ve just arranged for my very pissed-off, possibly-keeping-secrets-from-me dominant to meet my brother—who also happens to not be speaking to me—at one of the city’s swankiest yearly galas.

Oh, and I have nothing to wear.

I chuck my gloves into the janitorial bucket, wipe my palms down my jeans like that’ll help, and whip out my phone again.

Fuck. Who’s the fanciest person I know?

I text furiously.

Me: Kira, HELP. Fashion Emergency 911!