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TWENTY-THREE

BANE

Am I furious that Moira’s cornered me into this public spectacle of a night?

Yes.

Is it my own damn fault for the way I’ve handled things from the start and then doubling down on stupidity by feeding her some half-baked lie about a worship committee meeting to wiggle out of it?

Also yes.

I tried to justify it to myself, of course. Technically , it wasn’t really a lie. They have been asking me to join those calls, nudging me to step in and lead. But that’s the problem, isn’t it? The second I’m on the line, everyone suddenly defers to me, looking for guidance they’re perfectly capable of providing themselves. I’ve been trying to cultivate leadership from within and make them realize they don’t need me. Priests only stay in a parish for seven years or so. They should stand on their own, whether I’m presiding or not.

But when you peel away all the righteous justification, it was a bullshit excuse.

And Moira saw right through it.

So here I am, sitting in the back of an Uber, grinding my teeth as we circle the city blocks congested with traffic, all funneled toward the bright chaos of the famous yearly Christmas charity gala.

Even from here, I can see the flashes of paparazzi cameras strobing against the night like tiny, relentless explosions.

“ Fuck, ” I mutter under my breath.

The driver glances in the mirror, brows lifted in silent question.

“This is fine. You can drop me here,” I say, already reaching for the door handle.

Moira only sent me the ticket half an hour ago, like an afterthought—or a challenge. But I’d already Googled the event, the venue, the date. Had to know what I was walking into.

I slide out of the car, the city’s evening air cool against my face, tinged with exhaust fumes, expensive perfume, and the faint buzz of anticipation that always hovers near events like this—where wealth, influence, power and beauty feel tangible in the glitter of each jewel and stitched into every designer seam.

I know it’s an illusion. But it’s such a compelling one that I’ve yet to meet a person who couldn’t be seduced, even if just a little, by its charms.

I glance into the car’s side mirror, adjusting the priest’s collar around my neck.

It’s the only disguise I could muster.

My hair’s longer than it used to be—a little shaggy, the edges flirting with unruly. I haven’t bothered with the razor today either, and stubble shadows my jaw. It’s all a far cry from the slick, carefully curated image I used to maintain. Back when I thought being polished made me untouchable. Back when I believed I could control perception like I controlled everything else.

Tonight, I’m hoping the collar does most of the heavy lifting. It usually does.

People’s eyes slide right over it—or, more accurately, they glance at it but not past it. It makes them squirm, either out of reverence or discomfort, unsure whether to engage or retreat. Especially around here, where religion’s either woven into your bones or treated like an awkward relic from someone else’s attic.

It’s the perfect camouflage.

Nobody looks too closely at a man in a collar. They see what they want to see.

Which is exactly what I need tonight.

I start walking toward the entrance, the ticket tucked into my pocket like a dare, like Moira’s voice is still echoing in my head: Meet me tonight or we’re over.

So, of course, I’m here.

Because losing her isn’t an option.

But as I approach the building, it’s clear the red carpet’s a battlefield. Paparazzi are clustered like vultures, their flashing lenses hungry for scandal. I’d be an idiot to walk straight into that.

So, I circle the block, cutting through the shadows where the noise thins out. I follow the quiet hum of generators and the faint clatter of service carts.

Every event like this has a pulse beneath the glamor. A heartbeat of staff, security, and overworked coordinators trying to hold it all together with duct tape and desperation.

I find a side entrance tucked between dumpsters where a catering van is parked, half-hidden under a flickering security light. A woman with a headset and a clipboard stands there, snapping orders. Her stress is palpable as her eyes dart between the staff and her checklist.

Perfect.

I straighten my collar, smooth the front of my jacket, and walk toward her like I belong. Because that’s the trick. It’s not about sneaking. It’s about being invisible by standing in plain sight.

“Excuse me,” I say, my voice low but threaded with quiet authority. She glances up, frazzled but polite enough not to ignore me completely. “I was told an attendee requested spiritual counsel. They asked me to come discreetly.”

Her eyes flick to the collar, then back to her clipboard, processing just enough to believe me without actually thinking. That’s the beauty of the uniform—it fills in the blanks for people. They see what they expect to see.

She doesn’t question me or ask for a name. She just jerks her thumb toward the door. “Down the hall, ballroom’s to the left.”

“Thank you.”

I slip inside before she can change her mind.

The hallway is dim and lined with crates and folded linens. Staff hustle by with trays of champagne flutes. No one looks at me twice.

I move through the corridors like smoke—silent and unnoticed.

I’m not here to be seen.

I’m here for Moira. To prove whatever point she needed to be proved by my presence. To meet her brother. To take her home where I can punish her properly for dragging us into this unnecessary chaos. I will be exacting. I will bring back order.

I move through the corridors, pulse steady, every step measured with precision. A man with a purpose. A man in control.

Until I push through the final door?—

And the world stops.

There she is.

Moira.

Time folds in on itself and slips sideways, as if the universe had been holding its breath for this very moment.

The noise of the gala—the dull roar of conversation, the clink of glass, the undercurrent of Christmas music—fades to a distant hum.

She stands under the glow of chandeliers that drip with crystals, each shard refracting light like constellations scattered just for her.

The golden warmth paints her skin in liquid gold hues that cascade over the slope of her shoulders and catch in the delicate hollow of her throat.

Her dress—fuck, her dress—is a dark, fluid thing that hugs every curve like it was designed with just her in mind. It drapes. It clings. It bares .

My knees are weak, and all pretense at control evaporates as my eyes continue to trace her, incapable in this moment of doing anything else.

The truth is laid bare: I’m as under her spell now as I ever was.

Her hair is swept up, leaving her neck bare and vulnerable, the elegant curve of it leading down to a thin, silver chain resting against her collarbone—a chain I want to trace with my tongue. I want to taste where the cool metal meets her warm skin.

She laughs at something, her head tilted back just enough for me to see the curve of her throat, the faint pulse beating there like a siren’s call. Her mouth—Christ—her mouth is a perfect, wicked thing, soft and plush, curved in a way that makes me remember every filthy, sacred thing it’s ever done to me.

I feel it like a punch.

Low. Sharp. Hot.

A hunger buried so deep it’s practically in my bones, clawing its way to the surface.

But it’s more than that.

And I’m faced with the stark truth that this is more than just want—it’s need. The kind that doesn’t fade. The kind that doesn’t get sated, no matter how many times I’ve had her. No matter how many times I’ve told myself it’s enough.

She’s the wild wood, and I’ve been a goddamned idiot to think I could ever… what? Tame her? Tether her?

She unravels the threads I’ve knotted so tightly around myself.

I thought I was here to keep control, to be the one who dictates the terms.

But that was a lie.

I’m here because she exists .

I’m here because, without her, there’s nothing else.

I’ve been a lost man, thinking I was found. The man who hates lies was living buried under so many I can’t tell one from another. I’m no shepherd. I’m a fraud.

Her laughter fades, her gaze drifting across the crowd, indifferent—until it lands on me.

Her smile falters just slightly, but it’s enough.

I watch her breath catch. I see it. Feel it. Like we’re connected by some invisible thread pulled taut between us.

Her eyes—those impossible, beautiful green eyes—widen with surprise, then something darker flickers behind them.

Recognition. Heat. That sharp, electric awareness that’s always been there, thrumming beneath every word we’ve ever spoken, every look we’ve ever shared.

Our gazes lock, and the world collapses.

There’s no gala. No music. No crowd.

It’s just her.

Just me.

I start moving toward her, my steps automatic, pulled by a force older than logic and stronger than reason. My heartbeat drowns out everything else. It pounds in my chest and my throat and my skull.

She doesn’t look away.

Neither do I.

Each step feels like falling.

Because in this sea of people, beneath the glittering lights, surrounded by noise and artifice?—

It’s just us.

It’s always been just us.

“You came.” Her voice trembles.

“I’ll always come for you.”

“I—I didn’t mean to—” She cuts off. “I just—” She cuts off again, looking up at me helplessly.

I hold out a hand, desperate to touch her. “Would you like to dance?”